


Just Like You Were Brand New

by SilenceDogood117



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Apple Orchards, Aziraphale's Family is Awful, Breaking Up & Making Up, But With Lesbians, Christmas, Christmas in Tadfield, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Happy Ending, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Librarian Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light Angst, References to Jane Austen, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), This is a bit Hallmark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28103205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilenceDogood117/pseuds/SilenceDogood117
Summary: There are two things Aziraphale Fell hates: 1) people checking out books from her library and 2) Christmas. Already gritting her teeth to get through the festive season, she is further alarmed to hear that Antonia Crowley has come back to town for the first time in 14 years.Cue Christmas absurdities, reading contests, old memories, and the occasional duck.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 124
Kudos: 86





	1. Friday, December 1st, 2017

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multi-chaptered fic and I am very excited about Ineffable Wives at Christmas. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title from "The Bell That Couldn't Jingle"
> 
> Ch 1 cw: some diet talk/fat-shaming

Tadfield in December was impossibly quaint, as though the entire town had been scooped up, dusted off, and set right in the center of a snow globe belonging to someone’s nana. Soft white lights twinkled from storefronts on the main street, while evergreen wreaths adorned every post box, each street lamp, and a few cars that had stayed parked in one place for too long. The town’s inhabitants bustled around in cozy scarves and winter boots, with frost-pink noses and easy smiles. 

Behind the front desk of Tadfield Town Library, Aziraphale Fell tried very hard not to fantasize about burning it all down. 

It wasn’t that she hated Christmas. She certainly did not hate Christmas. And if anyone asked, she also didn’t hate the candles glowing brightly inches from flammable curtains, or carols sung with great enthusiasm about cruelty to reindeer, or children with candy canes who immediately used their sticky little hands to pick up library books. 

One day of forced communal cheer was all well and good (which is to say, manageable with a Xanax and an early bedtime), but a full month was too much to ask of anyone without hazard pay. Yet here she was, December 1st, faced with a middle-aged man in curly-toed bell-encrusted elf shoes and – not for the first time – wishing the library was a private bookshop she could close whenever she liked. 

“– and then they told _me_ to be quiet, as if I wasn’t about to report _them_ – ”

“I’ll be sure to speak with the Them, Mr. Tyler,” Aziraphale said, determinedly looking anywhere but at R.P. Tyler’s feet. 

“And _another_ thing,” R.P. Tyler waved his hand at the wall opposite the front door, where a large calendar had been pinned up, and took a step toward it. The step jingled. Aziraphale’s customer-service expression began to look a bit pained. “I wanted to speak with you about this Winter Read-Along. How will you be enforcing the page counts?”

“I won’t be enforcing anything, Mr. Tyler, it’s just for fun and to get people reading.”

“I see.” R.P. Tyler gave a loud sniff and peered suspiciously at the calendar. “Well I’ll be keeping an eye on the numbers in case anything looks funny. I’ve never seen Adam Young with a book in his hand in his whole life. Other than comic books maybe, but that’s not what I’d call literature.”

“You know, I heard it’s going to snow tonight,” said Aziraphale, who had heard nothing of the sort. “Do be sure to get home soon, I’d hate to think of you driving in it!” 

As expected, R.P. Tyler’s literary opinions paled in comparison to the chance to decry the local weatherman, the county council in charge of salting the roads, and the public’s inability to drive properly in inclement weather. He huffed his way out of the library, jingling with every stride. 

Aziraphale sat back in her chair and glanced around. When no one emerged from the library stacks to commandeer her attention – or worse, check out a book – she opened a small drawer under the desk and pulled out her tartan tin of emergency shortbread. Swiveling her chair to face the hold shelf, she carefully selected a biscuit, and sighed happily at the first crunch. 

“Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale jumped, sending shortbread crumbs into her lap. 

“Now, now, you’ll spoil your dinner!” Gabriel’s voice was loud enough to warrant a complaint by R.P. Tyler, if R.P. Tyler hadn’t had the sense to grant the town vicar a longstanding special dispensation from his behavioral standards.

“Gabriel, hello!” Aziraphale brushed at her lap hurriedly, dropping the tin into the drawer with a clunk. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“You know, you really should come up with a meal strategy for the holidays, just a plan of attack to see you through. Have you thought about cutting out gluten? I haven’t had a morsel since my 35th and I’ve never felt more alive.” 

“Yes, so you’ve said.” At every meal they’d shared since, and some they hadn’t. “What brings you here?”

“Can’t I stop in and see my sister?” His smile was sharp and white. 

And he could, of course he could, there was no reason why she shouldn’t welcome the visit. It was just that Gabriel dropping in unexpectedly felt less like pleasant happenstance and more like a surprise inspection. Aziraphale tugged at her skirt and looked with fresh eyes at her desk, cluttered with an unsteady pile of books she had been meaning to re-shelve once she had finished reading them herself, two stacks of flyers Anathema had left behind to advertise something to do with herbs, and no fewer than three travel mugs containing varying volumes of tea. 

Gabriel hadn’t waited for a response, turning away from Aziraphale to glance around the quiet library. His gaze landed on the calendar taking up most of the wall by the entrance. 

“What’s a Winter Read-Along?”

“Oh! Will you join? We could use some more people signed up.” Aziraphale jumped up from behind the desk and ushered Gabriel over to the calendar, pleased to be able to demonstrate some degree of professional competence. The whole thing reached about chin-height on Gabriel (Aziraphale had had to stretch to write the headings of the highest row). Three weeks were outlined on squares of thick cream-colored paper offset with dark green numbers and borders around each day, with delicate paper snowflakes trailing down the edges. It had taken Aziraphale multiple trips to the craft store and two of her vacation days to construct it. She considered it a labor of love – in that she would love, when inevitably cornered during the gauntlet of holiday gatherings, for people to talk to her about the books they were reading instead of asking whether she was dating anyone (she wasn’t) or if she had tried the Paleo diet (she hadn’t) or if she might like to ask Santa for a more modern wardrobe this year (she didn’t). 

“See, on December 1st you get credit if you read just one page, and then on December 2nd you have to read two pages to get the credit, and so on. If you keep doing that, after three weeks you’ll have read 231 pages! And you write in your progress and check off the days with the markers and the stickers, see?”

“And you can read any library book?”

“We-ell, it doesn’t _have_ to be from the library.” Aziraphale had seen Gabriel dog-ear a Bible on more than one occasion. And he _liked_ Bibles. “You could read one of your own books. An old favorite, perhaps? That you already own?” 

“I’ll have a think about it. I ought to be top of the scoreboard, leader of the flock and all.” He winked. 

“I’m sure that would be very inspirational,” Aziraphale said gravely. 

“So starts today, ends on Christmas?” He paused, looking again at the calendar. 

“Well,” Aziraphale hesitated, dread creeping in. “It actually stops on the solstice. I thought it seemed kind of nice, you know. On the darkest day you can… escape into a… a story.”

Gabriel’s brow furrowed.

“It would make more sense to finish on the day of Christ’s birth. There’s your celebration, am I right?” He chuckled. “You could add a few more days, make it a proper Advent calendar. Could use more red on here too, to be honest with you, maybe some gold.” He looked speculatively at the box of stickers next to the calendar. 

Aziraphale stepped hastily in front of the stickers. “It’s just that the library’s a public space, and everyone should be welcome. Not everyone celebrates Christmas.”

The furrow between his brows deepened, and Aziraphale forced a cheery smile. “Anyway, we’re closing in half an hour so I better start making the rounds and checking no one’s asleep in the bean bags again. Will you be coming to dinner tonight?”

“Of course! It’s the season to be with family!” Gabriel rapped smartly on the front desk. “Don’t be late though.”

Aziraphale’s smile stayed in place until she had done a final sweep of the stacks, shut down the ancient library computers, and made her way into the young adult section. Nobody was asleep in any beanbags, but the tell-tale hum of lowered voices brought her to the community meeting room, where four teenagers were huddled around one end of the table with a map spread out in front of them. 

“Quarter of an hour ‘til close, and please fold that properly before you put it back!”

“We’re just about done anyway.” Adam Young said, sitting back and stretching. The rest of the Them, as if responding to unspoken instructions, smoothly slid into action, slipping notebooks into backpacks, pushing in chairs, and crisply folding up the map, which appeared to be a map of local trails. The Them had a bit of a reputation in town as being prone to troublemaking, but they followed Adam’s lead and Adam was nothing but polite to Aziraphale. In minutes the community meeting room was as neat as it had ever been. 

Aziraphale drifted after them, turning out lights as the Them shuffled into their winter coats and had a halfhearted argument about how quickly Brian might get hypothermia if he didn’t wear his bobble hat. 

“Ms. Fell?” Adam interrupted the growing debate. 

“Call me Aziraphale please, you know that.”

“Actually, my mother says we should always address you respectfully ‘cause you’re the vicar’s sister,” Wensleydale piped up. 

“Well, it would be respectful to call me the name I like to be called,” Aziraphale pointed out. Wensleydale seemed to think this over for a moment, then shrugged and returned to the merits of bobble hats. 

“Aziraphale,” Adam persisted, “Is there an option to do your read-along with audio books?”

“Oh! Yes, of course!” She knew she’d been overlooking something. “Yes, let’s see, do you know which audio book you want?”

“ _The Martian_. The library app says it’s available but I don’t know how many minutes equal a page for your calendar. I tried Googling conversion rates but I couldn’t find anything for my specific book, just general guidelines.”

“Yes, I see your point. I suppose pages vary depending on the typeface and the formatting of the hard copy, don’t they?” Aziraphale dithered, aware that they were now past closing time. She hated being put on the spot, and vehemently wished she’d had the sense to plan for this option from the start. At least Gabriel wasn’t here to see this. “Tell you what, you lot get on home, and I’ll time myself reading a page of the hard copy and then send you the right conversion rate. Your email’s in our computer system. I’ll do it tonight so you can get started on time with everyone else.” 

Adam nodded solemnly. “That’ll work. Thanks, Aziraphale.” 

She waved them off into the night, then scurried to the stacks. Right, _The Martian_ , adult fiction, Weir… She was just going to read a single page and send one email, and then she would head straight home for dinner. How long could it take? 

\---

“We ate without you, I thought it wouldn’t be fair to keep Mother waiting,” said Gabriel icily. 

Aziraphale bit her lip. The library computer, clunky at the best of times, had taken ages to boot up again and even longer to connect to the internet to send her email to Adam Young. Despite the cold evening and her general dislike of cardiovascular exertion, she had sweated through her cardigan in her subsequent rush home. Gabriel had a car, but it technically belonged to the diocese, and he was insistent that only the vicar should drive it. Most evenings, Aziraphale enjoyed the walk. 

“Something came up at the library,” she said. “I had to make an adjustment to–” 

“You’ll be on your own with her for the next few days, I need to really dig deep for Sunday. First week of Advent, got to bring my A-game.” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale nodded. “We’ll have a nice quiet weekend in. Is she upstairs already?”

“Yes. Didn’t eat much either, most of her dinner’s in the fridge.” His tone of voice made it clear whose fault he thought this was. Aziraphale winced.

“I’ll cook one of her favorites tomorrow, I have the day off,” she promised. 

“You do that. Maybe stay away from your favorites though, eh?” Gabriel looked pointedly at Aziraphale’s waistline. “Just looking out for you.”

“Right.” This was familiar. He meant well. 

“And don’t tell her about your pagan reading contest.”

“It’s not – yes, okay.” It was simpler that way, Gabriel was right. 

“And definitely don’t mention that Antonia Crowley is back in town.” 

“I won’t, I… _What_?”


	2. Monday, December 4th, 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 2 cw: reference to a funeral

Aziraphale wasn’t _hiding_ in the biographies. She was simply assessing whether any biographies were out of place in her professional capacity as a librarian, through painstaking and time-consuming examination. That the biographies happened to be located in the very deepest corner of the library was immaterial. They had to put them somewhere, after all. 

The chances of Crowley coming to the Tadfield library were extremely slim. It was possible Crowley had never set foot in a library, if her teenage habits were anything to go by. But the front desk was within view of the front door and the front windows and that was a little too much “front” for Aziraphale right now, so she was here with the biographies and Newt was on desk, despite his propensity to make the electronic card scanner malfunction (consistently) or explode (twice). 

Aziraphale was coming up on 72 hours straight of fretting. She had carefully prodded Gabriel for details as much as she dared, until he had stopped looking exasperated and started looking suspicious. This would have been more of a concern, except that Gabriel _loved_ Advent – he was extremely fond of ceremonial candles and how he looked in purple – and had entirely forgotten the conversation by the time Sunday had come and gone. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was replaying it constantly, dwelling on the few pieces of knowledge she had managed to glean from Gabriel and the highly loquacious ladies who gathered to conduct intelligence briefings at the after-liturgy breakfast in the church hall. Crowley had apparently arrived in town the previous Friday in a flashy car. She had been seen 1) at a petrol station, 2) at the off-license, and 3) in a spirited discussion with a traffic cop. Her sibling Beez (there were some grunts at this, but the _sotto voce_ reporting stopped short of misgendering them, which was a small mercy) had made a rare appearance in town earlier that week, at the grocery store buying _coffee_. No one knew why Crowley had come back. No one knew if she was staying. 

_“Maybe something’s wrong with Beez. I’ve always thought they look a bit sickly.”_

_“Do you think she’d come back to take care of them? After she couldn’t be bothered to show up for Lucille?”_

_“And Lucille’s gone at least five years now, rest her soul.”_

_“Oh, Antonia hadn’t come back for years even before that. The last time I remember seeing her my Henry was still in primary.”_

_“Was he? Goodness, that must have been–”_

It was fourteen years, in fact, since Crowley had left Tadfield for university and never come back. She had indeed skipped her mother’s funeral five years prior. Aziraphale had gone – no one in the vicar’s immediate family could escape funerals, baptisms, or Lent – and had spent the entire service scanning the congregation for red hair. She hadn’t known then whether she was relieved or disappointed when her vigil was in vain. 

Not that she would know what to say to Crowley now. Not that Crowley would even want to talk to her.

Stewing over this dismal conclusion, Aziraphale stayed in the shelves until half past three, when the need for a snack overrode the need to keep rearranging biographies of Margaret Thatcher. She left one crooked in case she needed a reason to come back later. 

Emerging into the main reading room, Aziraphale blinked. The armchairs had been dragged out of their loose arrangement, the computer desks had been shoved together, and R.P. Tyler was gesturing forcefully at a very worried-looking Newt, who was scurrying to move the magazine racks to the periphery of the room. 

“What’s going on? There aren’t any events on the schedule for tonight.” Aziraphale, who had made the schedule, was certain of this. 

“Well, precisely, that’s how I knew the space wouldn’t be in use. Newton, if I had wanted tawdy tabloids in front of my choir, don’t you think I would have said so? I need all of these racks moved.”

“Yes, sir, I’m just working on that, sir. I can only carry two at a time, having just the two arms, sir.”

“Ah, Newt?” Aziraphale said delicately. “Might I have a word?”

They convened behind the front desk and spoke in fervent whispers. Aziraphale could feel R.P. Tyler’s disapproving gaze on her back without looking. 

“Choir? He’s bringing his choir? They didn’t book the space!” 

“He insisted!” Newt said, his voice an octave higher than usual, “I tried to stop him but he just kept talking. Apparently the heater’s out at the church hall and they need an alternative rehearsal space.”

“Newt, this is a _library_! They can’t just waltz in and start singing–” Aziraphale’s attention was caught by a man who strode into the library and headed for R.P. Tyler without even looking at them. He had a black case on his back, which was revealed to hold–

“A keyboard?!”

“I suppose they couldn’t carry the piano,” Newt said gloomily. 

More people were coming in now, shucking off their winter coats and waving merrily at R.P. Tyler, who had taken it upon himself to move the rest of the magazine racks against the wall, blocking the shelves with the mystery section. Someone was blowing a pitch pipe. 

Actual library patrons were starting to leave. Aziraphale apologized profusely as she checked out their books, putting up no objection despite seeing several of her favorites leave in the tote bags of people who might very well drop them in the bath. She glared daggers at Newt the whole time; he looked suitably abashed, but this was so close to his usual expression that Aziraphale did not feel mollified. 

“ _Good King Wenceslas looked out / On the Feast of Stephen,_ ” R.P. Tyler boomed, apropos of nothing. Aziraphale gritted her teeth. 

“Look,” Newt said desperately, “why don’t you go home early? I’ll wait for them to be done, close up after. Everyone who wanted to check out a book is already gone so I won’t even have to use the scanner.”

Deep down, Aziraphale knew this was partially her fault for leaving Newt unattended for so long, and she should probably stick out the rest of the day. But it was only December 4th, her nerves already felt dangerously frayed, and Christmas in Tadfield was a marathon, not a sprint. 

“Thank you, Newt,” she said finally. “I think I will go home. Please remember to lock up.”

He waved her out, looking relieved. As Aziraphale buttoned her tweed coat in the vestibule, she could hear one of the choir members insisting that Newt come join them, that anyone could sing, and why doesn’t he try this tambourine? She shuddered in relief and hurried out the door. 

It had snowed earlier, and a thick blanket of white covered the sidewalks. Aziraphale took in a slow breath of the afternoon air, relishing the quiet. The snowplows had clearly come through at least once, piling additional snow onto the kerb. Aziraphale picked her way carefully along the side of the road, which was a bit clearer thanks to the plows and the passage of cars, watching her feet to avoid the worst of the slush. She hadn’t worn the right shoes for this.

She winced as headlights approached from behind, conscious that she was currently a road hazard and no doubt an inconvenience to drivers. Sure enough, the black Bentley slowed almost to a stop as it came even with her. 

“You look like you need a ride.”

Aziraphale’s next step plunged into an unseen divot on the road, sending her foot ankle-deep in slush. Icy water flooded her argyle sock, but she was only dimly aware of its damp spread, every fiber of her attention suddenly locked on the open window of the Bentley. 

Antonia Crowley smiled at her from the driver’s seat. 

“Well?” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. “I… I’m just going home.”

Crowley leaned across and popped the passenger door ajar. It swung open in front of Aziraphale. 

“My feet are wet.” She said, stupidly. “Your car…” 

“It’ll dry.” 

Clamping her lips shut before she could say anything else inane, Aziraphale carefully eased herself into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut, clutching her purse on her lap. 

“Where to?”

“My mother’s,” she heard herself say. “I’m still there. It’s… you take a left after the church–”

“I remember the way.” Crowley shifted the Bentley into gear and they set off. Aziraphale couldn’t help but shoot a glance at her from the corner of her eye. 

Crowley’s hair was longer. Dark red waves swept loosely over her shoulder, curling at the ends and glinting under every streetlight they passed. She was still all in black, with the collar of her peacoat turned up under her sharp jaw. Her trousers were still impossibly tight. Although it was getting dark, she was wearing amber-tinted sunglasses, above which one perfectly shaped eyebrow was currently cocked at Aziraphale, making it clear that she had been caught staring. Aziraphale blushed. 

“Are you back for long?”

“Just for the holidays. One last Christmas at the farm with Beez.”

“Last?” Aziraphale instantly chided herself for prying. Crowley looked back at the road, scowling, but it was a general non-specific sort of scowl aimed nowhere in particular. A Crowley classic that Aziraphale hadn’t realized she’d remembered. 

“They’re gonna sell. Move somewhere that’s not falling down around their ears.”

“Oh, I see. That’s a shame. Or, well, I suppose it could be an awfully nice change for them, but I’d be sad to see the farm change hands. I hadn’t heard anything about it.” In a town the size of Tadfield, this was something of a feat, but Beez had always kept to themself, a trait which presumably ran in the family. 

Crowley shrugged. 

“Heard you’re a librarian now. You actually letting people check out any books?”

“Oh yes!” Aziraphale seized on the change of subject. “…That is, under certain conditions. The books are town property, it is only sensible to have standards surrounding their use.” 

“And how often are these conditions met?”

“Well, I try to encourage in-library use,” Aziraphale said diplomatically. She could see the beginnings of a smile tucked into the corner of Crowley’s mouth, and couldn’t help but feel emboldened. “We do have bean bags, you know. Very cozy, hardly any need to take books out of the building.”

“Bean bags,” Crowley whistled. “Very strategic. Are your custom readings part of the master plan?”

“I’m sorry?” 

“For some reading contest? I saw Adam Young earlier, he said you came up with an audio book option just for him.” The Bentley was steady on the slippery pavement, so Crowley must have had her eyes on the road, but Aziraphale somehow still had the impression she was being watched from behind those sunglasses. 

“Oh! Well, yes, I did do that for him. Special accommodation, you know. I wanted it to be fair. I should have thought of something earlier, really, he shouldn’t have had to ask, it’s part of my job to ensure equal access.” _Stop babbling_ , she thought wildly. And then – _has she been asking about me_?

“And what does one have to do to get a special accommodation?”

“I beg your pardon?” 

Crowley’s mouth twisted in a wry smirk as she tapped the side of her sunglasses. “Not much of a reader, me.” 

“You want to join the read-along?”

Crowley shrugged again. “I’m in the middle of nowhere, and the internet at the farm is crap. May as well read a book.”

“Right. Very sensible, I didn’t mean to imply that you shouldn’t!” Aziraphale could feel herself growing flustered and tried to walk it back. “Do you have a book in mind?”

“My audio book app did an Austen sale a while back, I downloaded a bunch at once. Thought _Persuasion_ might be a good one to start with, but I’ll defer to your professional opinion.” Crowley’s voice held a bit of snark, but not enough to disguise a slight undercurrent of – something. 

“Ah, yes. _Persuasion_.” Aziraphale paused. “ _Persuasion_. Right. Hm.” 

“I mean I could go straight for _Pride & Prejudice_, but it just seems a bit obvious...” 

“No, _Persuasion_ is good! Excellent choice, a classic, really. I can get the page-to-minute conversion for you and then, er, away you go! You’ll have to play catch-up for the first few days to get the first few page credits, of course.” Aziraphale grasped at logistical concerns to quiet the suddenly shrill chorus in her brain. “Your email address is probably not in our system anymore, is it? Maybe I can send the conversion to Beez?” 

“Nah, I’ll just give you my number and you can text me.”

“Right,” Aziraphale squeaked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Right.” 

“Here we are,” Crowley said, as the Bentley came to a stop. Aziraphale, who hadn’t looked out the window once since she’d gotten into the car, became abruptly aware that they were in fact already in her family’s driveway. 

Crowley reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a leather wallet, out of which she produced a black business card. She offered it to Aziraphale, balancing the card casually between her index and middle fingers. Aziraphale took it automatically and looked down. 

_Antonia Crowley, Senior Consultant_  
_The Fourth Circle_  
_Mayfair, London_

“What does a senior consultant do?”

Crowley snorted. “I just make trouble, really.” She ran a hand through her hair. Aziraphale tried not to follow it with her eyes. “Anyway, I’m not in the office much, so that’s my personal cell at the bottom. You can send me a text or – or give me a ring. If you like.” Crowley looked down, suddenly busy patting her pockets as if confirming she had put everything away again. 

“Lovely,” Aziraphale breathed. “I’ll do that. Yes.” 

Crowley nodded, still looking down. 

“Well, I should… I’ll let you go, then. Thank you, really, for the ride, that was very kind of you.”

“Nah, it was on my way,” Crowley said. “You got everything you came in with?”

“Yes, thank you again,” Aziraphale couldn’t help take a last look as she got out of the car, holding so tightly onto the business card that its corners would surely leave an indent on her skin. “Lovely to – to see you. Have a wonderful evening.”

“You too.” It was hard to tell in the dark but was Crowley actually smiling? “Goodnight, angel.”

Aziraphale kept her hand raised in an awkward wave as the Bentley pulled out of the driveway. She didn’t move toward the house until Crowley’s tail lights had disappeared into the night.


	3. Fifteen Years Earlier: December 24th, Christmas Eve, 2002

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter! 
> 
> Ch 3 cw: implied pregnancy of a minor character

“And remember, the Christmas Eve collection tonight is being taken up on behalf of our Youth Leaders, to support them on their path towards greater ministry,” Reverend Sandalphon cast a gimlet eye over the congregation, “– so please give generously.” 

Gabriel winked at Aziraphale from the first pew, and she suppressed a groan. Of course he’d been selected as a Youth Leader. If only there were a collection for the little sisters of Youth Leaders, who would inevitably bear the brunt of the Youth Leading until they were deemed adequately Youth Led. Then again, if Gabriel continued on his current path, he’d be starting seminary before long, which would require leaving Tadfield for at least a few years, and Aziraphale had to admit this prospect had a certain appeal. 

She contributed when the basket came around, of course she did. This was the third and last Christmas Eve service of the evening, and she had contributed at every one. Tomorrow she would attend all the Christmas Day services, and she would contribute again each time. Not content with a single holiday service this year, Gabriel had declared to the family at large that they had to “really put in some face time” if they wanted Reverend Sandalphon to support Gabriel’s eventual bid for the priesthood. Aziraphale’s mother couldn’t manage back-to-back days out of the house, a medical truth that even Gabriel had to acknowledge, so she and Aziraphale’s father would only be coming on Christmas Day. That left Gabriel and Aziraphale as Fell family representatives this evening, and Aziraphale had already learned that her duties as such included fetching candles, restocking the programs, adjusting the lectern microphone, smoothing out welcome mats at all the church doors so people wouldn’t trip, and then re-smoothing them after people still managed to trip. She was sure before the night was over Reverend Sandalphon would come up with about eight more tasks he couldn’t possibly do himself. 

Sure enough, after the ending processional, the reverend came back into the church and made a slow but decisive beeline for Aziraphale. 

“Miss Fell, I wonder if you might assist me–”

“Anything you need, Reverend, just say the word!” Gabriel appeared from behind Aziraphale, making her start. 

“All the Youth Leaders will be receiving equal amounts, you see, so we need someone to divide everything up into separate envelopes. The envelopes are already in the sacristy,” Reverend Sandalphon added, as if that was the labor-intensive part of the job. 

“Wonderful!” Gabriel clapped his hands. “Aziraphale, the reverend and I have some things to talk about, you can take care of splitting up the collection, can’t you? It’ll be good practice for your A-levels! She’s not naturally gifted at maths,” he added in an undertone to Reverend Sandalphon. 

“Well, I do know how to divide by seven,” Aziraphale said. “Reverend,” she added hastily in Sandalphon’s direction. 

“Oh, it’s just six now.” Gabriel said airily, “You had to drop Deirdre Young, didn’t you, Reverend? But don’t worry, Aziraphale is honest to the bone, my share will be just the same as everyone else’s, hah! Right, so you’ve got that handled, Aziraphale, and you can walk home, can’t you? Wouldn’t want to put a time limit on our theological discussions, would we, Reverend?” Gabriel and Sandalphon both chuckled. 

“What happened to Deirdre Young?” Aziraphale asked. “Is she okay?”

Reverend Sandalphon gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“The six recipients are very deserving, I’m sure they’ll be grateful to receive their share of the collected funds. Now, Gabriel, just a moment and I’ll be ready.” 

“Of course, of course, take your time,” Gabriel said graciously. He caught Aziraphale’s eye and jerked his head toward the back of the church. She took the hint and stacked the collection baskets, which had been left somewhat haphazardly near the front of the church, so she could carry them all at once, leaving Gabriel to hover near the reverend as he extinguished candles and put the altar to rights for the evening. 

Aziraphale carried the baskets to the back of the church, spread out the baskets on the last pew, and began pouring the collection into one basket for counting. She worked silently, spreading out crinkled bank notes and separating out coins in their own piles. The holiday collection was always the most lucrative of the year, as even people who never attended service otherwise would turn up for Christmas, often with looser purse strings to make up for their previous absence. Even the haul from Christmas Eve alone, divided among the six recipients, would still be considerable. If she was being honest, Aziraphale was a bit surprised Sandalphon had agreed to let the money go. 

“Reverend,” a new voice broke into Aziraphale’s uncharitable musings. “Please, might we just talk–”

Aziraphale looked up, recognizing Deirdre Young from her English Language and Literature A-levels. She smiled, but Deirdre wasn’t looking at her, was instead looking beseechingly at Reverend Sandalphon, stepping towards the altar with her hands clasped in front of her. 

“– I didn’t want to interrupt the service, but if I could just give you a little more context on my situation–”

“Miss Young, I think we have heard all we need to hear,” the reverend said coldly. “I’m sure you understand that the money is not mine to give. It belongs to the church, and it must be distributed according to church values.” 

“I do understand that, Reverend, but –”

“I’m sure there are plenty of other services that help women like y– women in your situation,” Reverend Sandalphon bowed his head. “Gabriel, shall we proceed to the rectory?” 

“But–”

“Of course, Reverend,” Gabriel said smoothly. He didn’t look at Deirdre, but called over his shoulder, “Aziraphale, be sure the door locks behind you when you leave.”

Aziraphale nodded mutely. The two men left through the door to the side of the altar. Deidre dropped heavily into a pew, looking distraught, and folded her hands in prayer. Not wanting to intrude on a private moment, Aziraphale gathered up the baskets and slipped into the church vestibule. She stepped through the door leading to the sacristy to finish sorting the collection, leaving the door open in case Deirdre came back out. Once she had six equal amounts sitting neatly in front of her, she reached for the envelopes (there, as promised, in the sacristy), and then paused. 

She stood frozen for a moment and listened, closing her eyes as if that would force more attention to her ears. No sound came from inside the church except for what might have been a muffled sob from Deirdre. Aziraphale winced, listening harder. There was nothing from the direction of the rectory. She opened her eyes.

__

“Pssssst. Deidre.” Even in a whisper, Aziraphale’s voice sounded too loud. Deidre paused in the vestibule, swiping a hand over her reddened eyes. 

“Aziraphale?”

“Shhh, don’t – just come here a moment, if you would?” Aziraphale let the door to the sacristy close behind her, hearing the click of the automatic lock. Inside, six equal envelopes sat on the table, sealed and labeled, waiting for Reverend Sandalphon to collect them in the morning for distribution to the community recipients. 

“I’m sorry you had to hear that–” Deidre began. 

“It’s not your fault, I’m sorry that – well, I’m sorry. Here.” Aziraphale thrust an envelope at Deidre. 

“What’s this?” 

“It’s your share, from the – please just take it, quickly, please.” The envelope was shaking in Aziraphale’s hand as she held it out again to Deirdre. Deirdre stared at her, open-mouthed. 

“Won’t they notice?”

“I’m the only one who’s counted it,” Aziraphale said. The collection had yielded quite a lot. Dividing it by seven rather than by six still left a tidy sum. And if anyone still thought the amounts were a bit funny, well, Gabriel _had_ told them she was bad at math. 

“Aziraphale, I can’t accept–”

“The door behind me is locked, and I don’t have a key,” said Aziraphale. “I can’t put this back. It’s yours.”

Deidre’s bottom lip wobbled and she threw herself at Aziraphale in a hug. 

“ _Thank you_ ,” she whispered. 

“Don’t thank me, just don’t let anyone see you still here.” Aziraphale pulled back and watched Deidre tuck the envelope safely into her down coat. “Don’t go home by the rectory, go the long way around.” 

Deidre nodded. “You’re an angel,” she said fervently, and hurried out into the night. 

Aziraphale watched her go, and tried to even out her breathing. This was fine. Everything was fine. She was going to turn out the lights and go home and tomorrow was Christmas and everything would continue to be fine. 

She turned back to the empty church to hit the light switch, and bit back a scream. 

The church wasn’t empty. Antonia Crowley stood in the doorway to the vestibule, watching her with wide eyes. The look on her face made it clear she had heard enough. 

Under any other circumstances, Aziraphale would have been pleased (in a bashful, anxious, might-throw-up sort of way) to have Antonia Crowley’s full attention. She was incredibly striking – copper hair, impossibly sharp cheekbones, eyes so close to the color of honey it was almost eerie. Rarely did a maths class go by without Aziraphale casually glancing more than once over to wherever Antonia had chosen to sprawl that day, long limbs stretched over classroom chairs that seemed ill-equipped for the task of containing her. Aziraphale had in fact seen Antonia at the service earlier tonight, slouching behind her mother in the line for Communion, and had let her gaze linger slightly longer than necessary. Aziraphale didn’t usually see her in church – she had the impression that hers was a family who attended only on Christmas, and only if they didn’t have better plans. Antonia seemed the type to often have better plans. She wore mostly black, kept to herself, and always seemed to be squinting, although somehow that did not soften the effect of her eyes. Aziraphale felt this last observation keenly as their gazes locked. 

Although she’d been in church earlier, Antonia’s mother was nowhere in sight now, a fact for which Aziraphale was profoundly grateful. Unable to come up with an excuse, or indeed any words at all, Aziraphale kept staring at the other girl in horror, acutely aware of what this looked like – what this _was_. If Antonia told the Reverend… if she told _Gabriel_ … 

“Antonia, please,” Aziraphale said desperately, at last finding her voice, “Please, let me–”

“Crowley.” 

“Please – what?”

The redhead shifted. “I prefer Crowley.” She was still staring at Aziraphale, her expression impossible to read. “That was money from the church collection.” It wasn’t a question. There was something in her voice that Aziraphale couldn’t place. 

“Please. Please don’t report me, it’s just that they _promised_ the money to Deirdre, they really did, she was listed as one of the recipients until tonight, and I think she’s _expecting,_ so doesn’t she need it even more now? Please, Ant– Crowley, my parents will be so disappointed, please don’t tell anyone, I’ll do anything–”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Crowley said, still looking a little funny. “I won’t, I promise.”

“You – really?” The combination of adrenaline and relief made Aziraphale’s head spin. She stumbled and put out a hand to steady herself against the wall, and found herself somehow reaching for Crowley instead. Crowley lurched forward to catch her. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Aziraphale whispered miserably. 

“It’s okay, it’s my fault for startling you in the first place,” Crowley said, her voice slightly frantic and slightly muffled from – oh god, Aziraphale had fallen so far forward that Crowley’s mouth was somewhere in Aziraphale’s hair. She jerked herself back abruptly and Crowley put her hands up in a way that was probably meant to be soothing. “I didn’t mean to sneak around, I just came back because my mother left her gloves.” She held up a pair of black leather gloves as if offering proof. “Everything’s all right now, no one’s here, no one saw.”

Aziraphale nodded, taking gulps of air. Her face was flaming. A small part of her brain, underneath the waves of panic, noted that she had never heard Crowley say so many words in a row before. Crowley had a nice voice, a little deeper than her willowy frame suggested. 

“Can I walk you home?” Crowley asked. 

“What?” Aziraphale apparently wasn’t done making a fool out of herself. 

“You just seem a little… frazzled. And it’s getting late. Shouldn’t walk home alone.”

“Won’t your mother mind if you come home late?”

“Guarantee you she won’t even notice,” Crowley’s voice took on a bit of an edge, but quickly smoothed out. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I think we’ve both probably done enough lurking in churches tonight.” 

Aziraphale sniffled and nodded. She followed Crowley out and checked that the main doors automatically locked behind them. 

“I’m not far,” she said. “It’s this way.”

They set off, boots crunching in the scant inch of snow that had fallen during the evening. Their breath formed tiny clouds of condensation, mixing and dissipating above them. Aziraphale tried to appreciate the clear sky, the visible stars, but even as they got farther from the church her nerves continued to sound a shrill alarm. Technically, she had stolen the money. And had immediately given it to a pregnant woman, but still. She had been entrusted with money and she had stolen. From the church. From the collection basket. On _Christmas Eve._

“You okay in there?” Crowley said, who had been watching Aziraphale’s changing expressions with some alarm.

“I just hope I didn’t do the wrong thing,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“Oh, I don’t think you _can_ do the wrong thing,” Crowley said immediately. “Er.” 

Aziraphale blinked at her. Crowley’s ears were very red, no doubt from the cold. They clashed horribly with her hair. 

“Look,” Crowley said quickly, “The congregation gave money specifically so that it could be shared with community recipients, right? Kindness to others is supposed to be Christian, isn’t it? I didn’t hallucinate that whole thing about doing unto others?”

Aziraphale snorted despite herself. “No, that’s real.”

“There you go. They gave the money to be shared, the money has now been shared. Case closed, an angel gets its wings.”

“Why are you being so kind to me?” Aziraphale asked, wonderingly, “You don’t even know me.” 

“I’m not being kind,” Crowley scowled. “I’m stating the facts. Just an observation. Like the weather.” She shuffled her boots in the snow. “And we’re in the same maths class, you know.” 

“I know,” If anything, Aziraphale was _too_ aware that Crowley was in that class. On one memorable occasion she had been so aware she had failed to finish a problem set and had to hand it in incomplete – although in her defense, Crowley had come in that day with her hair cut short and then took the seat right in front of Aziraphale, the back of her bare neck inches from Aziraphale’s nose. Aziraphale dragged her thoughts back to the present. “But we’ve never really talked.” 

“I don’t talk much in class,” Crowley said, shrugging. 

“Will you talk to me next time?” Aziraphale hadn’t meant to actually ask out loud, and hardly dared look at Crowley’s face. When she darted a glance upward, she was rewarded with Crowley’s actual, crooked, glorious smile. 

“’Course I will, angel.”


	4. Tuesday, December 5th, 2017

When Aziraphale returned to Tadfield Town Library the next morning, R.P. Tyler and his choir were mercifully absent from sight (if not quite from mind, due to Newt’s newly developed tinnitus). Aziraphale checked in all the books in the return dropbox, re-shelved each one, and double-checked every item on the hold shelf. When she could put it off no longer, she headed into the stacks to find _Persuasion_.

Adult fiction… Austen… ah, there it was. Aziraphale brought it back to the front desk to avoid disturbing anyone who might be browsing in the depths of the stacks. The front desk appeared deserted, which normally would have been cause for scolding Newt, but Aziraphale supposed he deserved some slack after his trauma with R.P. Tyler and the tambourine. She settled into her perch and flipped _Persuasion_ open, deliberately staying away from the second half of the book. If Crowley hadn’t read it before, she presumably didn’t know it was a story of long-ago love, but Aziraphale was all too aware, and she wasn’t sure she could handle the reunion scene at the end right now. 

Despite her caution, the first attempt at reading a random page found her squarely in the exposition of Anne and Wentworth’s failed engagement. She flipped to a new page and tried again, arriving at a description of a child’s dislocated collarbone that proved more palatable. She timed herself reading the page aloud twice (just to be sure), and then picked up her phone and scrolled to the contact list, where she had added the number from Crowley’s business card. 

Crowley had given Aziraphale her number but hadn’t asked for Aziraphale’s, she now realized. The Crowley of Before would have been bolder, brasher, prepared for pushback and ready with excuses whenever Aziraphale needed them, even in that first conversation walking home. Always thinking several steps ahead, able to hold multiple futures in her mind at once, pivoting along a finely calibrated spectrum of possibilities until she found the narrow sliver between not enough and too much, and then offering that option to Aziraphale as if she had only just thought of it. 

It had been simpler to react then (until, of course, it wasn’t). To be the one presented with options, to know that even if she refused them all, Crowley would come back with more – better, safer, adjusted to accommodate Aziraphale’s fears. An exquisitely tailored menu of temptations, allowing Aziraphale to choose or discard as she pleased in the moment, safe in the knowledge that no choice was ever permanent (until, of course, it was).

Crowley couldn’t call her now. Either Aziraphale would call, or no one would. Aziraphale stared at her phone’s contact list, fingers drumming rapidly on her thigh. Was this how Crowley had felt every time? 

Calling was too scary. What if it was a bad time? What if Crowley was working, or worse, _socializing_? Did Crowley socialize now? Maybe she was with Beez, doing farm things (Aziraphale’s brain supplied the image of Crowley with a hay bale). What if Aziraphale called and it startled Crowley and she dropped the hay bale on Beez? No, calling was out of the question. A text, now that was more like it.

Aziraphale could imagine what Crowley would say if she saw her anguishing over her cell phone like this – or rather, what the Crowley of fourteen years ago would have said. _Think about it this way, angel. I’m a Tadfield resident who needs a reading accommodation. You’re the librarian. Texting me as soon as you can would just mean you’re doing your job promptly._ The justification was comfortingly familiar, even if it didn’t address Aziraphale’s true fears, buried under layers of posh manners and obliging smiles – that she _wanted_ to be texting Crowley, that she _wanted_ it not to be for her job, that she _wanted_ it to mean something else. 

She was overthinking this. She needed to send one (1) text and be done with it, get back to her actual job, maybe go find Newt to make sure he hadn’t gotten his sleeve caught in the bathroom hand dryer again. Nodding decisively to herself, Aziraphale gathered her nerve.

_Dear Crowley, this is Aziraphale. I’ve found a copy of Persuasion and have timed myself reading a page aloud. One page took me 2 minutes and 21 seconds. I do hope this is helpful._

She bit her lip, and kept typing. 

_It was very nice to see you yesterday._

She hit “send” before she could delete this last part, and put the phone down a bit too forcefully onto the front desk. It was, objectively, a miniscule amount of emotional vulnerability, but Aziraphale still felt like she might faint. 

“Aziraphale?” She jumped, and looked down to see Newt sitting on the floor behind the return dropbox. As he looked up at her, he methodically stuck a finger in one ear and then the other. 

“Have you been there this whole time?!”

“Er, yes. My balance is off, I’m keeping my center of gravity low. Are you okay?” 

“Oh yes! No problems here! Absolutely tickety-boo!” 

He gave her an odd look, but was thankfully distracted by the arrival of a middle-aged woman draped in an abundance of brightly colored fabrics. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” she beamed, green eyes bright under enormous false eyelashes. “You have a book reserved for me!” 

“Quite right,” Aziraphale said, smiling despite the imminent departure of a book. Madame Tracy had that effect on people. Only Gabriel managed to maintain a stout dislike (“she dabbles in the _occult_ ,” he had warned Aziraphale), but even he stopped short of causing any unpleasantness in person. There was just something about Madame Tracy that made one feel accepted – after all, what was going to shock a former sex-worker turned psychic? However odd Aziraphale sometimes felt, however inadequate or out of place in her own skin or her own family, she knew she couldn’t possibly be the oddest thing Tracy had ever seen, and probably wouldn’t even make the top ten. This was a comfort. 

She was, however, still sad to let _See Serpents: An Advanced Guide to Summoning Snake Demons_ go. A book was a book. 

Just then, Aziraphale’s phone lit up and she lunged across the desk to retrieve it. 

_Thx, i’ll get started. Beez wants in, but they hate listening 2 any voice that isn’t theirs. Any chance u’d let them have an actual book?_

Aziraphale contemplated the message for so long that Tracy cleared her throat. 

“Sorry! So sorry, here you are, that’ll be due back on the 26th, thank you.” Aziraphale looked at her phone again. Crowley hadn’t called her angel in the message, even though it could have slotted in neatly after “Thx,” irritating abbreviations notwithstanding. Maybe she had imagined it the night before? She had admittedly not been firing on all cylinders. But Crowley had asked a question, which meant it would be rude for Aziraphale not to respond. And by that logic…

_Do you still have goats at the farm? It is my understanding that goats eat paper._

“Is everything all right, dear?” Tracy asked, with warm concern. Aziraphale barely heard her.

“She’s tickety-boo,” Newt said helpfully, from the floor. 

_No goats anymore. Can’t make promises about ducks tho._

“I don’t suppose that’s Antonia Crowley you’re texting?” Tracy’s voice was suspiciously bland. Aziraphale’s head jerked up and she quickly put the phone down. 

“No! No, I’m just… it’s just Gabriel, he had a question and I needed to answer him.” Aziraphale’s conscience gave a twinge, but the lie had been automatic. “I’m so sorry, can I help you with anything else?” 

Tracy raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale reminded herself that she did not actually believe in psychics. 

“Ah, well, I was just going to ask you to pass along an invite to a little winter soiree I’m having on Friday. No matter, I’ll ask Beez.” Tracy twinkled. “Of course you’d be very welcome, dear, but I understand your family obligations.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale smiled, back on familiar ground. “I couldn’t possibly leave my mother alone to attend a party. On Friday, you said?”

“Yes, this Friday, my little flat, drinks start at 6… well, drinks start whenever you like, really,” Tracy winked. “And Anathema is leaving the bakery open late, so anyone who happens to stop by for a scone or some tea might, oh, find their way upstairs by accident.”

“Well, in those circumstances it would be only polite to say hello,” Aziraphale agreed. Tracy’s flat was located just above Tadfield’s only bakery. As Gabriel never looked too hard into Aziraphale’s reasons for wanting to go to the bakery, this provided a certain amount of cover for visiting Tracy herself. Her holiday party was the only one of the season that Aziraphale actually enjoyed – the canapés were abundant, no one ever pressured her to stay past nine, and as an added bonus, the whole flat smelled perpetually of fresh bread wafting up from the ovens below. True, she usually didn’t have anyone to talk to (Tracy herself was sure to be rather occupied with her current beau, a man who she had only ever introduced as The Sergeant), but it still made for a nice change of scene. 

Aziraphale’s thoughts stuttered. Tracy had implied she was going to invite _Crowley_. Would Crowley go? Should she give Crowley a heads-up that she also planned to drop in, since they appeared to be on speaking terms now? 

“I’ll let you get back to work, dear,” said Tracy, who once again looked too knowing for Aziraphale’s comfort. “I’m sure you have lots to get on with.” On her way out she waved at Newt, who waved back from the floor. 

As soon as she was out the door, Aziraphale snatched up her phone. She realized with a jolt that several more texts had come in from Crowley while she had been talking with Tracy. 

_Beez says they want a short story collection called Out of Time, if u have it._

_Could u part with that?_

Then, a few minutes later: 

_Was joking about the ducks. Promise no duck damage will befall ur books._

Aziraphale began to type, but was once more interrupted, this time by Anathema Device sailing into the library in a cloud of incense and voluminous skirts. Silently cursing, Aziraphale hastily fixed a smile onto her face. Some days the library could go hours with zero foot traffic, and some days it felt more like a bus station. That today was apparently the latter felt like a particularly cruel joke at her expense by God, or Satan, or… someone, anyway. 

“Good morning! I – why are you on the floor?” Anathema paused, looking down at Newt, whose ears were suddenly crimson. 

Newt sprang to his feet, nearly tripped over them, grabbed the return slot to keep his balance, and attempted to lean casually against the doorframe. “I’m not on the floor.”

“…Okay then.” Anathema clearly knew how to pick her battles. “Aziraphale, can I check out one of the maps, or do those have to stay in the library?” 

“Ah, those must stay in the library, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, not even trying to sound apologetic. Anathema sighed, but nodded and swept off to the community meeting room without another word. Newt watched her go, still clutching the return slot, and sighed as he straightened up. 

“She thinks I’m a fool,” He said, collapsing into the seat next to Aziraphale and dropping his head onto the desk. She patted his shoulder awkwardly. 

Her phone lit up as a final message from Crowley popped up on the screen. 

_Actually, nvm, don’t worry about it. Thx for the austen count._

Aziraphale scrambled to reply. 

_Sorry, I had to check someone out! We do have Out of Time, I can put it aside for Beez._

Crowley responded immediately. 

_Cool, thx. Condolences on the customer._

Aziraphale closed her eyes against a sudden wave of fondness. Next to her, Newt groaned into his hands. 

“Doomed,” he mumbled. “I’m doomed.”

“Buck up,” Aziraphale said. “It’s Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of Time is a collection of short stories by George Langelaan, including his most famous short story "The Fly". Seemed like an appropriate choice for Beez.


	5. Fourteen Years Earlier: Winter and Spring 2003

The first time they kissed was under the apple trees. 

Morning Star Farms was covered in February snow, a thin layer of ice coating the dormant branches over their heads. They were out of sight of the farmhouse, deep in the orchard, and Crowley had been shivering for the last ten minutes. 

“This is what happens when you dress to look good and not to stay warm,” Aziraphale chided, unwrapping her own scarf from around her neck. 

“Ah, but you admit I look good.” Crowley said, waggling her eyebrows. Her bravado was slightly undermined by her very pink nose. “That’s – ”, she cut herself off abruptly as Aziraphale stood on tip-toe and wound her scarf around Crowley’s collar. It was white and fuzzy and entirely incongruous on Crowley. Crowley’s eyes were fixed on her, and Aziraphale found herself very reluctant to let go of the ends of the scarf. It would be so easy to tug Crowley down to her level, pull her in, see if she could make those golden eyes go wide. 

With an internal sigh, Aziraphale tucked the ends of the scarf in and dropped her hands. Such thoughts were commonplace now, since the Collection Basket Incident. True to her word, Crowley had smiled at her and said hello the next time they had arrived at their shared maths class. She had even waited for Aziraphale after class, asked if she’d had any “church trouble” once they were safely away from any eavesdroppers. (Aziraphale hadn’t, in fact, had any trouble. The Youth Leaders got their stipends and no one ever actually mentioned the collection again. Incredibly, she seemed to have gotten away with it.) From there Aziraphale found herself swept along through a series of slow realizations, each leading to the next like dominoes in a line. 

Crowley was gorgeous, of course. That much had been clear from the start. But it wasn’t just that – she was incredibly bright, endlessly curious, and dangerously irreverent. She’d turned up to Mass once on an unremarkable Sunday in January, without her mother, wearing a huge down parka and (she’d confided to Aziraphale with a grin) nothing underneath. She’d seemed entirely at ease during the service, sauntering up to Communion with bare knees poking out between the parka and her boots. Aziraphale had gone scarlet every time she looked in Crowley’s direction, and had to fake a coughing fit to draw the reverend’s attention when Crowley genuflected in front of the tabernacle. 

Crowley’s attention, too, was unlike anything Aziraphale had experienced. Aziraphale was used to bits and pieces – a minute alone with her mother while setting the table, half a conversation with her father before Gabriel interrupted, brief chats at church or the shops or parties until her conversation partner found someone else they’d rather talk to. She knew how to budget for scraps of time, what not to bother her family with, and when to excuse herself before anyone began to find her tiresome. But Crowley listened to Aziraphale like she _wanted_ to, like she wasn’t just waiting for Aziraphale to draw a breath so she could jump in, like she thought Aziraphale’s thoughts were interesting. Like she thought _Aziraphale_ was interesting. 

And then there were the times when Crowley would go quiet, when they were walking through the town green or tucked into a pub booth over chips after class, looking up at the stars or down at her hands with a slight furrow in her brow, and Aziraphale ached to turn that focus back on her, to know what she was thinking of. _Tell me everything,_ she longed to say, _I want to know everything about you._

But Crowley was flashy and clever and – somehow – her friend. Grasping for more would be the act of a glutton. So Aziraphale reminded herself, often multiple times a day, and so she repeated to herself in the orchard, as she pulled back to a reasonable distance. Or tried to, anyway, before finding Crowley’s hand wrapped around her elbow. 

“Hey,” she said softly, “Angel.” 

When she thought back on it – that night, the next night, and for years afterward, clutching at the memory – Aziraphale remembered the kiss as if in slow motion. Crowley’s other hand coming to her cheek and tipping her face up, Crowley’s golden eyes fixed on hers, searching for any kind of hesitation, and finally, finally, Crowley’s lips meeting hers, still cold despite everything. 

In reality, it happened very fast. Crowley kissed her and then let go of Aziraphale’s elbow, shifting to take a step back to give her some space. Aziraphale’s brain, never the best at quickly adapting to turns of fortune, for once rose to the occasion and caught up with the rest of her. She surged forward to kiss Crowley again, cradling her head in both hands as they both half-stumbled into a nearby apple tree. For one shining moment, Aziraphale thought of nothing but Crowley. 

They came up for air eventually, breathing hard. 

“Oh God,” Aziraphale said faintly. Slight alarm bells began to sound somewhere in her head. 

“Not in this orchard,” Crowley grinned. Then her smile faded as she took in Aziraphale’s face. 

“Hey, it’s okay. We don’t have to do that again, we can just… just leave it, if that’s what you want.” 

“No! No, I don’t want to just leave it,” Aziraphale rushed to say, and watched relief break across Crowley’s face. “It’s just… if we… can we keep it to ourselves? My family’s very traditional, and my brother’s trying to become a priest.”

Crowley nodded vigorously, her chin digging into the fluffy scarf. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Whatever would make you comfortable.”

“Just not where anyone can see,” Aziraphale said, squashing a vague feeling of guilt. “Just when we’re alone.”

“Got it. Just when we’re alone.” 

There was a long pause. Aziraphale finally began to feel like she had gotten her breath back. Crowley seemed hesitant to reach out to Aziraphale again, which just wouldn’t do at all. 

“I can’t help but notice,” Aziraphale said, “that we’re alone right now.”

Crowley’s answering smile could have melted the ice off every tree in the orchard.

\---

The orchard became Aziraphale’s favorite place. Crowley’s father was long gone, her older sibling was away at university, and from what Crowley said about her mother, Lucille wouldn’t have noticed if the entire place went up in smoke around her. Every time Aziraphale crossed over the farm property line, she felt as if she had wings. At Morning Star Farms there was no one to comment on what she was eating, no one to interrupt her in the middle of a sentence, no one to appraise her scornfully and find her lacking. There was just Crowley. 

Crowley, with that wide crooked smile, introducing Aziraphale to the goats who lived in the barn and the single duck who was inexplicably allowed in the farmhouse. Crowley, looking gobsmacked the first time Aziraphale got up the nerve to throw a snowball at her, bursting into peals of laughter before swooping to retaliate. Crowley, stretching out under the biggest tree in the orchard on the first warm day of spring, pulling Aziraphale down into the grass to join her. 

Aziraphale’s new absences from home had not gone unnoticed, of course, but her upcoming A-levels provided a convenient excuse to spend time with “a classmate”. She carefully offered few details, making vague allusions to her maths scores and best practices for knowledge retention, and let her family fill in the rest with their own inferences. Her father had gruffly approved of the idea of additional study sessions, while Gabriel had expressed what a pleasant surprise it was to see Aziraphale taking some initiative for once. Crowley had no trouble with maths and didn’t really need a study buddy, but she dutifully brought her notebook along anyway every time Aziraphale visited. 

“I don’t mind going over a problem set or two,” she shrugged, when Aziraphale tried to reassure her she really didn’t have to go to any trouble. “Plus, even five minutes of review every time means that, technically, you’re telling your parents the truth. ” 

A technical truth, Aziraphale decided, was good enough for her. Conscience thus appeased, she stole every moment she could with Crowley. She learned that Crowley loved heist films and houseplants, that she got frequent headaches and almost certainly needed glasses, and that she didn’t have much of a sweet tooth but could demolish a family-sized bag of pretzels in a single afternoon. She learned that complimenting Crowley outright would result in blustery denial or rapid changes of subject, but ducking her head under Crowley’s arm would earn her a soft smile or a kiss on the nose. Aziraphale gradually gathered up these pieces of knowledge and held them close to her heart. 

She still worried, of course. About what Lucille might say if she ever actually took an interest in Crowley’s activities, about slipping up and reaching for Crowley in public, and most of all about what she would do when the A-levels had passed and she no longer had a ready explanation for spending time away from home. Her brain never went completely quiet, but there at Morning Star Farms, curled in a blanket nest with Crowley, reading a book with one hand while the other played idly in Crowley’s hair, knowing she was acres away from the nearest neighbor and even further from her family’s home, Aziraphale felt her anxiety slow and soften into a muted hum. 

As an added bonus, she really did seem to be getting better at maths. Even cursory reviews of material with Crowley began to add up, given how often they spent time together, and Aziraphale ramped up her own study efforts with renewed enthusiasm. It would never be able to hold her interest like literature could, but at least Aziraphale no longer feared she would utterly disgrace herself on test day. 

As the weather grew warmer and the exams drew nearer, Aziraphale found herself looking for any excuse to meet Crowley. She didn’t want to limit their time together to the farm anymore, not when her window for excused absences was starting to close. Crowley took the change in stride – when Aziraphale had to head straight home after class, Crowley would walk with her until the final block; when Aziraphale did the household shopping on Fridays, Crowley fetched her own basket and ensured their paths crossed in the cheese corner; when Aziraphale complained about feeling obliged to set up breakfast in the church hall when Gabriel was away, Crowley chose that week to attend service and helped to pour orange juice. 

It was this last choice that nearly led to discovery. 

Aziraphale was clearing plates and picking up crumpled napkins after most of the congregation had gone. Every so often she looked balefully at the picked-over remains of the breakfast offerings. She had been so caught up in the crush of elderly ladies swarming over the refreshments table that she hadn’t gotten the chance to make a plate for herself, and now all of her favorite apple muffins were gone. 

She tied off the last large garbage bag and sank into a seat. A moment later, a black boot nudged her penny loafer. 

“Saved you some,” Crowley said, sliding into the seat next to her and holding out a small paper plate. An apple muffin sat in the center of the plate, surrounded by an assortment of croissants and danishes. For a moment, Aziraphale thought of throwing caution to the winds and just kissing Crowley right there in the church hall. She settled for accepting the plate and squeezing Crowley’s hand, but couldn’t stop herself from beaming. Crowley winked, a smile tugging across her face too. They sat in companionable silence as Aziraphale happily worked her way through the pastries, saving the prized apple muffin for last. 

“Well that was _scrumptious_ ,” she sighed at last, brushing crumbs off her sweater. “What are you in the mood for–”

“Ah, Miss Fell.” 

Aziraphale jumped up, and Crowley instantly pivoted away, moving to grab some folding chairs to stack by the side of the room. Aziraphale turned to see Reverend Sandalphon approaching from the stairwell that led to the church. 

“All squared away here,” she said, slightly higher-pitched than normal. “I’ll just–” Aware she was still holding her own plate, upon which incriminating crumbs were visible, she hastily untied one of the trash bags and slipped it inside. “There, now that’s everything!” 

“Your help, as always, is appreciated, Miss Fell,” Sandalphon said, surveying the hall. “Your friend’s too, although I must say her attendance at Mass has been… sporadic.” He frowned, and Aziraphale felt a familiar note of panic at the oncoming disapproval. 

“Oh, we’re not friends,” Aziraphale said quickly. “We’re just in the same study group. For maths.”

She saw movement from the corner of her eye, and turned to see Crowley slipping out the door, folding chairs evidently abandoned. Aziraphale’s heart seized, but she fought to keep her face neutral in front of Sandalphon. She just had to get through this conversation, play the whole thing off, and then she could talk to Crowley. Crowley would understand, she was the one who had shown up at _church_ , of all places. 

“Ah, yes, Gabriel has mentioned your struggles with maths. Admirable of you to work to overcome your deficits.”

Aziraphale nodded, too anxious to even consider taking offense at this. Sandalphon paused for a long moment, and then miraculously let it go. 

“Well, thank you again. I will be sure to tell your brother what a help you’ve been,” he gave her something that almost resembled a smile. She nodded again, gave an awkward wave, and tried to keep a normal, unhurried pace as she left the hall. 

Crowley hadn’t gone far. She was standing a little ways away on the road near the rectory, with her back to the church and her hands in her pockets, hunched in her leather jacket despite the warm weather. She was digging the toe of her boot into a clump of grass, and looked up as Aziraphale approached. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t – I had to say it, he talks to Gabriel all the time –” Aziraphale wrung her hands. Crowley took a step towards her, and Aziraphale glanced instinctively at the rectory windows. Were the curtains twitching? Crowley’s eyes flicked to the rectory as well, and then back to Aziraphale. She stepped back, and gave Aziraphale a placating smile. 

“I know, angel. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s just that you usually don’t come to church, so he noticed–” 

“Got it.” 

“– and he might start to wonder–”

“Look, if anyone asks, I’m just currying a bit of favor with the Big Guy before the exams, right? Like a deathbed conversion. Nothing to do with you.” 

“Right,” Aziraphale nodded. “Okay.”

“Do you… are we still on for studying tonight?” Crowley’s voice was light, but her gaze was now somewhere around Aziraphale’s shoes. 

Aziraphale paused. It was risky to see Crowley twice in the same day, but the exams were _so close_ and then when would she get this chance again? 

“Yes,” she said, and heard Crowley let out a breath. “Can we meet at the farm?”

“’Course we can,” Crowley smiled. And then, very quietly, “It’s a date.”


	6. Friday, December 8th, 2017

There was no menu at Nutter’s Bakery. The counter held a glass display case nearly the length of the room, at which one might point to indicate a confectionary preference, but in general Anathema would regard each customer for a long moment through her round spectacles, bring out a dessert of her choosing on a plate, and that would be that. New customers were always impressed (or a bit alarmed) when she got their tastes bang on, but Aziraphale had long since stopped wondering how she did it. When presented with a baked good still warm from the oven and impeccably matched to her appetite, Aziraphale certainly wasn’t about to start asking questions. As she ducked into Nutter’s Bakery on Friday evening, a blissful aroma greeted her. 

“Aziraphale, just in time! I made a late batch of cinnamon buns, had a sense they wouldn’t go unappreciated.” Anathema dipped into the display case with her tongs and pulled out a cinnamon bun nearly the size of Aziraphale’s head. It had clearly been finished only moments before, the glaze still dripping down the sides. Aziraphale’s mouth instantly began watering at the sight. 

“Oh, yes, please!” 

“And chai in a travel mug, I think,” Anathema continued, plopping the bun onto a ceramic plate. “Stayed late at work, did you?”

“Oh, yes, had to catch up on some inventory,” Aziraphale smiled. Inventory was ongoing, painstaking, and terribly convenient to invoke as an excuse whenever she pleased. “Why the travel mug?”

“So you can take it upstairs, of course. Half my regulars are already up there, I’ve been floating in and out myself.” Indeed, Christmas music was tinkling through the bakery, coming from the floor above.

“That’s right, Madame Tracy’s party!” Aziraphale’s dramatic gasp of surprise wasn’t convincing in the least, but Anathema just looked amused. “Why, I couldn’t possibly leave without stopping by, just for a little while. Since I’m already here.” 

“Cheers,” Anathema handed her the plate and the travel mug, and then waved her off when Aziraphale fumbled for her wallet. “No charge tonight, consider it a party favor.”

“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale couldn’t resist taking a bite of the cinnamon bun when she was still on the staircase, and so had her mouth full when she was accosted by a tipsy Madame Tracy at the top. 

“Aziraphale, what a pleasant surprise!” Madame Tracy winked and then wrapped her in a full-body hug. Aziraphale’s arms stuck out awkwardly, still holding the plate and the travel mug. “Do come in, watch your step just there, that’s it. Now it’s a proper party!”

“I was just stopping in for a cinnamon bun,” Aziraphale said, once Tracy had released her. “It would have been dreadfully rude to leave without saying hello.” 

“Right you are,” Tracy had procured a glass from somewhere, which she now raised. “To fortuitous circumstance!” Cackling, she took a hearty swig. “Well, make yourself at home, love, drinks over there, nibbles that way, and don’t miss out on the décor, eh?” She sailed away, giving a nearby partygoer a playful nudge as she went. 

“The décor?” Aziraphale turned to regard the rest of the room, and blinked. Madame Tracy, never one to choose subtlety when other options were available, had apparently hung mistletoe in every single doorway and window of the flat. The door to the back steps already appeared to be occupied with Harriet Dowling and her current boyfriend, despite the fact that it was barely 7:30 pm. Aziraphale hastily averted her eyes from the happy couple, and noticed Newt huddled in a corner by himself with a cup of Tracy’s famous spiked cider. She approached him gingerly. 

“Started on the cider already?”

“Needed it for my nerves. This place is a bloody minefield,” Newt grumbled, nodding at another sprig of mistletoe Aziraphale hadn’t noticed, hanging directly over the crockpot cider station. 

“Might that work out in your favor?” Aziraphale asked. “I know Anathema’s around here somewhere, she’s the one who gave me this cinnamon bun.” 

Newt shook his head with a mournful expression. “I don’t think she’s the type to take direction from a plant. Probably sock me for even trying.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale conceded. 

“Mind you, she could break my nose and I’d still thank her,” Newt said, gazing into his cup. Aziraphale decided to head this line of thinking off at the pass. 

“Tracy’s painted since last year, hasn’t she?” She asked, popping a piece of cinnamon bun into her mouth and nudging Newt with an elbow. He looked around with little interest. 

“Suppose it’s a bit more orange, yeah.” 

“I think it’s awfully cozy. I’d love to paint my walls a proper color.” Aziraphale sighed. Gabriel had once hired some painters for the Fell household as a Mother’s Day gift, but his idea of an upgrade had been taking the walls from “white” to “eggshell.” 

There was a bit of a commotion near the kitchen, where a large man with a ruddy face and a military jacket had just appeared, wielding a tray of what looked like cheese and bacon canapés as if he was thinking of using it as a battering ram. 

“Like scavengers, the lot o’ ye! Ye cannae crowd a man when he’s wearin’ oven mitts!” He glowered at the nearby partygoers, who were mostly ignoring him in favor of jostling each other to get within arms reach of the tray. 

“Why, Sergeant,” Madame Tracy trilled, sweeping over, “I do believe you’re under the mistletoe!” 

This was enough to clear the area. 

As people scattered, Aziraphale caught a glimpse of red hair from the other side of the room.

Her next gulp of tea went down very much the wrong pipe, and she choked, inadvertently spraying tea on Newt. Aziraphale twisted to muffle her hacking coughs in her sleeve, aware that heads were turning in her direction. Newt patted her awkwardly on the back. 

“You okay?” 

“Splendid,” she wheezed, eyes watering. She ducked low under the pretense of picking up a fallen napkin, trying to will herself back to composure. 

Crowley was watching her from across the room when she straightened up. The redhead lifted a glass in Aziraphale’s direction with a small smirk. Aziraphale raised her now-empty travel mug sheepishly, and couldn’t help but let her gaze drift below Crowley’s face to the rest of her outfit.

“Oh _good lord_.” 

“What’s that?” Newt was still hovering, his expression concerned.

“Nothing! I’m just going to use the loo. You can have the rest of the cinnamon bun if you like.” Aziraphale fled to Tracy’s bathroom as Newt looked after her, astonished – never in living memory had Aziraphale failed to finish a cinnamon bun. Once firmly ensconced in the bathroom, Aziraphale stared at her reflection in the mirror and tried in vain to smooth her flyaway curls. 

Madame Tracy never gave a dress code for her gatherings, except to tell people to wear what would make them most comfortable and to keep in mind that, when in doubt, sequins go with everything. Aziraphale had worn one of her nicer cardigans and a smart tartan skirt (and if she had spent more time than usual that morning selecting the outfit, well, no one had to know). Newt was in pressed khakis and seemed to have made some effort to incorporate a seasonal touch with a truly garish tie, which gave the impression that a cartoon Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was protruding from his torso. 

Crowley had clearly made no such concession to the holidays. All in black as always, with a different pair of sunglasses perched on her nose, she had opted for a sleek sleeveless jumpsuit, with a keyhole neckline so plunging R.P. Tyler would probably try to have her arrested before the night was over. 

In the bathroom, Aziraphale dug in her purse, hoping that perhaps she had some lipstick. After a minute of searching, she had unearthed three packets of biscuits, a battered E.B. White paperback, an inexplicable number of ballpoint pens, and one chapstick, which she ruefully concluded was the best she could do. She made one last attempt to flatten her hair, and left the sanctuary of the bathroom. 

In the interim, the red-faced “sergeant” had apparently been mollified, and was now feeding Madame Tracy canapés by hand. Anathema had come upstairs and was perusing the drink options, while Newt lingered near her and made an unnecessary production of ladling himself more cider. Crowley was now in conversation with a short, spiky-haired person with a mutinous expression, whom Aziraphale recognized as her sibling Beez. She had turned slightly so that she was no longer facing Aziraphale, and–

The jumpsuit was backless. Of course it was. Aziraphale wondered fleetingly if Crowley was cold, although she, Aziraphale, seemed to be excessively warm at the moment. She was just going to sit down for a spell, and maybe signal to Newt to get her a cider as well, not because she needed it, just to give him more of an excuse to take his time next to Anathema – yes, that’s it. Aziraphale dropped onto the sofa and wiggled into the cushions. There, she was the picture of nonchalance. 

The sofa sank slightly as Crowley sat down on the other end. 

“Hey, angel.”

“Hi,” Aziraphale said, slightly breathlessly. _Angel_. She had definitely heard it this time. 

“Thanks for letting Beez check out those short stories, they’re already way ahead of the page target.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, deliberately reigning in her instinct to ask after the details of Beez’s reading habits, book handling skills, and personal hygiene. “And you? How are you liking _Persuasion_?” 

Crowley made a noncommittal sort of noise and shifted on the sofa. In the warm light of Tracy’s flat her hair was practically glowing; Aziraphale hoped the same light would cover for her own flushed face. 

“Oh, do stick with it!” Aziraphale implored. “Austen’s pacing can feel slow but there’s such a pay-off, I promise.”

“All right, I’ll keep at it,” Crowley said agreeably. She crossed one long leg over the other and looked thoughtfully around the room. “It was nice of Tracy to include me, you know, I didn’t think she’d even remember me.”

“Of course she did, everyone remembers you,” Aziraphale said, without thinking. “Um. That is, when you first arrived it caused a bit of a stir at the church breakfast. The talk of the town, you and your car.” 

Crowley laughed, and Aziraphale felt herself beginning to relax. This was nice. She’d never been at a party with Crowley before, never shared her company so publicly, never seen her this dressed up, this _friendly_. There were so many people crammed into Tracy’s little flat, and no way to know whose eyes were on them. For just a moment Aziraphale wondered how they looked together from the outside, whether they seemed dreadfully mismatched – Aziraphale pale, round, and buttoned-up; Crowley sleek, sharp, and a bit flash – as if one or the other were out of place. Or was it obvious, even now, that something in Aziraphale gravitated to something in Crowley? That thought, once so frightening, tonight – in the boozy, dimly lit safety of this warm flat – seemed to bring Aziraphale a soft, secret thrill. In a quiet, guarded corner of her brain, which usually went unacknowledged even by Aziraphale herself, she began cataloguing the nearest mistletoe locations. 

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d turn up to something like this,” Crowley stretched a long arm along the back of the couch. If she’d been sitting just a little closer, Crowley’s fingers might have brushed her shoulder. Aziraphale considered wiggling to surreptitiously shift on the cushion. After a moment she realized the question implicit in Crowley’s words. 

“Oh, I’m not really attending, you see. I just stopped by the bakery for some tea and a cinnamon bun to unwind after a long week and heard the music from upstairs. Purely coincidental.” She waggled her eyebrows at Crowley to invite her in on the scheme, feeling a bit proud of herself. 

Crowley pulled her arm back to cup her drink with both hands. Aziraphale faltered, trying to read the redhead’s expression through her damned sunglasses. 

“You’re still doing that, huh?” Crowley’s voice was low. 

“I–” Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. The cozy bubble of the moment before was punctured. Crowley seemed to be closing in on herself, and Aziraphale reached out a hand without thinking, letting it lightly come to rest on Crowley’s wrist – realizing too late, with a jolt, that this was the first time they’d touched in fourteen years, she felt Crowley inhale sharply – 

“Oh, Aziraphale!” Anathema – where had she come from? – was suddenly standing there. Aziraphale looked up in a daze. “I meant to tell you earlier, I love what you’ve done with the read-along. It’s given me just the right amount of accountability to catch up on the New Aquarian Digest–”

Crowley muttered something to excuse herself and shifted out of Aziraphale’s loose hold, twisting up and off the sofa in a flash. Aziraphale started to get to her feet, just as Newt popped up in front of her, weaving slightly but looking energized. 

“Anathema was just telling me about whales, Aziraphale, she knows so much about whales! But they’re in trouble, apparently, it’s heart-breaking – tell her about the whales, Anathema. Aziraphale, listen to this, go on.”

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale began, “I was just–”

“Well, it’s not just whales, you know,” Anathema said gravely. “Ocean life in general is suffering due to anthropogenic factors.”

“I’m sure that’s dreadful, but I need to–”

By the time Aziraphale had extricated herself from this discussion of marine biology and related concerns, Crowley was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I put Crowley in the Fleabag jumpsuit. And she looks great.


	7. Crowley's Advent Begins, 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Here's some Crowley POV. :)

**Friday, December 1st**

Morning Star Farms had seen better days. The orchard was scraggly, the fences had fallen in, and whatever paint remained on the empty barn was indistinguishable in color from the mud path around it. Only the ducks and the chickens looked fat and happy, making judgmental poultry noises at Crowley as she stepped out of the Bentley from their roosts in the two heated coops next to the house. 

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Crowley had quipped when she’d first arrived, and then instantly regretted it when she saw the hurt flash lightning-fast across Beez’s face. “I didn’t mean… listen, you’ve accomplished much more than most people could have. I wouldn’t have lasted a year.”

Beez had only grunted and helped Crowley haul in her suitcase, which had gotten a wheel stuck in a pothole. They’d spent the first night drinking to every ill-fated scheme Beez had ever hatched to squeeze a living out of Morning Star, from the goat yoga to the pickle-eating contests to the adopt-a-vermin campaign. 

“What it all comes down to,” Beez slurred, around 2 am, “is that you can only eat so many apples.”

“Mm,” Crowley stared into her glass.

“And so I can only _sell_ so many apples,” Beez continued, waving their finger, “before Tadfield’s full up on apples.” 

“Why not scale up?” Crowley’s head was now on her arms. “Sell outside Tadfield?”

“With what capital?” Beez scoffed, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and tipping a generous amount into both of their glasses. “Where’s the extra land? Who’s picking the apples? You gonna let me transport them in the Bentley?”

“Fair point,” Crowley conceded. She raised her head cautiously, aware that if she played this wrong the next few weeks were going to be very uncomfortable indeed. “You know, Beez, I know it’s yours in all the ways that matter, but technically Lucille left this place to both of us.”

“’M not gonna cut you out of the sale, relax,” Beez grumbled. “Haven’t even found a buyer yet.”

“No, that’s not… it’s just that I haven’t really held up my half, you know. This whole time.” 

Beez looked up, fixing beady and surprisingly clear eyes on Crowley’s face. They said nothing. 

“And I could – _I_ could invest in it. I couldn’t before, but I can now. I’m senior staff. They love me down there.”

Beez still said nothing. Crowley began talking faster. 

“Seems only fair, right? You’ve done all this work by yourself, imagine if you had a little breathing room. You could get goats again, maybe. Fix up the barn. And I could visit every Christmas, catch up on what’s been going on–”

Beez’s expression shuttered. Crowley’s stomach dropped. 

“I don’t take charity,” they snapped. 

“It’s not charity, it’s an investment in–”

“Investments are supposed to have returns,” Beez got to their feet, roughly grabbing both glasses from the table. “This farm is never going to make the slightest bit of profit, and you know that.” They slammed the glasses down in the sink and turned on the tap. The faucet creaked audibly. 

Crowley contemplated swigging directly from the whiskey bottle. With an effort, she dragged herself to her feet to put it away. 

“I’m going to sleep,” Beez growled. “Your room’s where you left it, you can make your own bed. If a duck shows up overnight, his name is Harold and he gets half the duvet.”

Crowley grimaced, but nodded into the liquor cabinet. By the time she turned around, Beez was gone. 

Crowley slept until noon the next day, when Beez rapped sharply on her door. 

“I don’t care if you sleep all day, but I haven’t got a rooster anymore so after this you’re on your own.” 

They didn’t wait for a reply, stomping off down the hallway with a surprising amount of force despite their diminutive frame. Crowley sighed. She had hoped that Beez might not remember the details of the previous night’s conversation, but their mood, even more sour than usual, suggested otherwise. Further conversation was likely to be unpleasant for a while, and Crowley had nowhere else to be. Crowley shoved Harold the duck off her chest, stuck her head under her pillow, and willed herself back to sleep.

**Monday, December 4th**

Over the weekend Beez sent Crowley on approximately seven hundred errands, taking advantage of the Bentley’s boot and Crowley’s desire to smooth things over. Crowley agreed to all of them – she had always liked driving and it gave her an excuse to not check her work email – and by Monday she needed to stop for petrol again. The Bentley was her baby and she wouldn’t hear a word against her, but fuel efficiency was not her strong suit. Crowley pulled into Tadfield’s only petrol station and set to work, huddling by the pump and wishing she’d brought gloves. 

“Are you famous?” A voice came from nowhere. Crowley swung around and found herself being regarded by a group of teenagers. The one who had spoken had curly hair and a remarkably self-possessed air about him. 

“Er, no?” Crowley eyed the fuel gauge, willing it to rise faster. 

“Those people are staring at you,” the teenager added helpfully, nodding at the petrol station window, through which the station clerk and several customers could be seen hastily averting their eyes. 

Crowley sighed. “That’s because this town is the size of a postage stamp and nothing interesting ever happens here.”

“Actually, I think it’s because you’ve gone against the arrows,” The bespectacled boy next to the first one piped up, pointing at the pavement. “It’s supposed to be a one way station.” 

“Terrific. Thanks for the input.” Crowley said, looking back at the fuel gauge. 

“I’m Adam Young and we’re the Them,” The curly one continued. “Do you live here?” 

“No.”

“But you used to?” 

“What are you, the Pee-Wee Neighborhood Watch?”

“Actually, we overheard the church ladies gossiping about you. Then Reverend Gabriel told them to be quiet, which was odd because they gossip all the time and he never cares. So then we thought maybe you were famous or had done something really bad, like–”

“Hang on,” Crowley said. “Gabriel _Fell_? He’s the vicar now?”

The assorted youth nodded, and Crowley refrained from cursing out loud only with great effort. She had been vaguely considering attending Christmas Eve Mass, if only for the sake of closing a circle, but that was definitely off the table now if that wanker was running the show. Gabriel had always seemed so lofty and ambitious, she’d never imagined he’d be coming back to run a tiny town parish. Then again, she never imagined she’d be back either, at a tiny town petrol station with the slowest pump in the United Kingdom.

She shouldn’t ask. Absolutely, categorically, positively should not ask. 

“Is his sister still around?” _Damn it._ Maybe she could walk it back, like it was just a throwaway question, like she was coolly indifferent to the answer. 

“Aziraphale?” The one called Adam Young said, and Crowley forgot about trying to be cool. She nodded, feeling particularly grateful for her sunglasses hiding her eyes. 

“Yeah, she runs the library.” Adam suddenly looked fierce. “If you mess with her you’ll have to go through us.”

“I’m not going to – I was just asking –” Something clunked into place in Crowley’s mind. “Did you say your surname was _Young_?”

“What of it?” Adam was still ready for a fight. His compatriots drew close behind him, and one of them – the only girl – put a placating hand on his shoulder. 

“Nothing, just wanted to make sure I heard you right.” Crowley gripped the fuel pump, which had long finished pumping, so tightly her fingers went white. “The library, hm.”

“Actually, she’s a very good librarian,” The one with glasses said. “She set up a winter read-along until the solstice and now everyone is trying to read fast so they can use the good stickers before they’re gone.”

“And when I wanted to do an audio book she read it herself to get an exact time chart so I could still do the read-along,” Adam said, calming down a bit. “Most of my teachers just tell me listening doesn’t really count as reading.” 

“Sounds like she’s great at her job,” Crowley said quietly. 

“Your tank is full now,” the girl next to Adam said. “If you hadn’t noticed.”

“Thanks. I’ll just – well, it was nice to meet you,” Crowley said, looking mostly at Adam. The Them nodded in unison, having seemingly deemed Crowley acceptable, and moved off in a loose formation. 

Crowley sat in her car at the petrol station until her nose was almost numb from cold, and then finally pulled herself into motion. Starting the ignition, she waited for the engine (and her bones) to warm up. 

So. Gabriel was the vicar. Aziraphale was the librarian. Both Fell children had clearly carved out their own niche in Tadfield. Uncertainty over Aziraphale’s whereabouts no longer had to hang over her head; she could go back to the farm and see if Beez was thawing and they could have their last Christmas as planned. 

But.

Maybe she’d go the long way and drive by the library. Just in case. 

**Saturday, December 10th**

Crowley had not been entirely truthful when she’d first flippantly mentioned _Persuasion_ to Aziraphale. Although she hadn’t read any Jane Austen books before, she had seen bits and pieces of various miniseries and film adaptations thanks to a former flatmate who had considered Austen the pinnacle of human cultural achievement. This was enough to leave Crowley with a vague idea that _Persuasion_ involved a pair of former lovers, and when put on the spot in the Bentley she had named the title partially on a whim and partially with the notion that she might gain some shred of the upper hand by flustering Aziraphale. 

This had backfired rather spectacularly, as Crowley was now entirely and agonizingly invested in Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth’s relationship. She made no attempt to keep to the daily read-along target, listening to the audio book app for hours at a time, and had even missed an exit off the highway while running more errands for Beez because she’d gotten too worked up over Wentworth calling Anne “altered” by time. 

“’Course she’s altered, you nautical shit,” Crowley had growled, gripping the steering wheel as if it had done her wrong, “She’s been holding that family together this whole time. Lotta UV rays out there on the ocean, bet you don’t look so hot yourself.” 

For all her emotional investment in Anne and Wentworth, it wasn’t this that made Crowley regret choosing the book. She was fairly sure that Anne and Wentworth were going to work it out in the end – after all, it was a love story. No, it was the role of Anne Elliot’s family, who unfortunately turned out to be rather crucial to the plot line, that made Crowley wish she had just kept her blasted mouth shut about the read-along in the first place. _Well done, Crowley, your first conversation with Aziraphale in fourteen years and you bring up a book about pushy relatives. Stellar strategy, really top-notch._ What if Aziraphale thought she had done it on purpose, as a laugh – or worse, out of spite? Aziraphale was so used to jokes coming at her expense, so quick to accept every ounce of fault, what if she thought Crowley blamed her too?

In truth, Crowley didn’t blame Aziraphale. She’d wanted to, of course, afterward – furious, embarrassed, heartbroken, ready to hiss at anyone who even looked at her funny. But the years had softened the sharpness of the blow, and Crowley had spent enough of her adult life in therapy to know that not everything was about her. 

After their aborted conversation at Madame Tracy’s party, Crowley had fled outside to the Bentley and tried desperately to remember this, breathing slowly and mindfully to trick her body into regaining some equilibrium. She knew why Aziraphale did it, really. The moment she’d seen that pale figure walking home in the slush on the side of the road, Crowley had felt a long-buried instinct resurface – the desire to throttle every other member of the Fell family (including Aziraphale’s father, Crowley had no compunctions about bearing grudges against the dead). 

(Other desires had resurfaced too, but dwelling on those did no one any good.) 

It was as infuriating as it was incomprehensible to Crowley. The Fells had the incredible luck to have kind, soft, luminous Aziraphale in their lives, and in response to this good fortune they treated her as if she were in the way. Aziraphale, who asked for so little and offered so much, who deserved to enjoy what she wanted without tying herself in frantic little knots. Aziraphale, who still lived at home and took care of her mother and shopped for her brother and laid flowers for her father, and always, always, fell short in the Fells’ unwinnable race.

Of course she wasn’t going to fall further by being with Crowley openly. It would have been a bad bet then, and it was still a bad bet now. Aziraphale was being kind because Crowley was back in town, but the fundamental stakes of the game had not changed. A few friendly conversations, a ride home, Aziraphale’s expression when she’d seen Crowley in that jumpsuit – now crumpled at the foot of Crowley’s bed, which she hadn’t yet mustered the will to leave this morning – none of that was enough to outweigh the consequences Aziraphale would face for stepping out of line. 

She was probably going to have to schedule a session with her therapist when she got back to London, Crowley thought ruefully. 

Her mobile buzzed from her nightstand. Crowley lunged for it, forgetting to keep her expectations low, hoping despite herself that it was Aziraphale calling. Maybe Crowley could explain away her abrupt departure the night before, say she’d had a bad canapé, laugh it off, anything so that Aziraphale wouldn’t blame herself–

“Crowley?”

Ah, bugger. 

“Hi Hastur,” Crowley said weakly. “Lovely to hear from you.”

“Funny ha ha, joke all you like, Crowley, I need your transition plan for that pollution conglomerate by Monday.” 

Crowley winced. “Pretty sure that’s not what that company is called.” 

“It should be, the way they use plastic. Don’t put that in the file name though, learn from my mistakes, yeah? Monday, got it?”

“Got it. Hey, while we’re talking, I just wanted to say – ”, Crowley wasn’t sure she had ever thanked Hastur for anything before, but apparently today was a day for getting over herself. “Thanks for letting me work remotely this whole time, I really appreciate it.” 

“No offense, Crowley, you’re great with the clients but you’re a menace in the office,” Hastur said. “Ligur actually met his report deadlines this week, and I’m pretty sure it’s because you’re not here to shout at him about using Oxford commas. Eric used to go down to the lobby to use the bathroom because he was afraid to pass by your desk, so now he’s not making six trips in the lift every day and his productivity has skyrocketed. Even I get more done now that I don’t have to listen to you threatening the plants by reception.” 

“Oh.” Crowley said, taken aback. 

“Dagon misses you though.” Hastur added, as an afterthought. 

“Well, that’s – something.”

“Just get your reports in on time, make sure clients can reach you by phone, and if you need to do a site visit give me a bloody heads up so I can approve your travel. Other than that, I don’t care if you work from the moon.” 

“Right.” Crowley blinked. “Thanks,” she said again, because she was getting used to it. Hastur scoffed and hung up. 

“Well,” Crowley said, still holding the phone to her ear, and belatedly realizing she was petting Harold the duck. “That was a thing.”


	8. Fourteen Years Earlier: Summer 2003

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this chapter to be finished sooner, but it was a pretty distracting week to be an American. There is angst here, as I'm afraid we've reached our bandstand moment, so I will do my best to get the next update out faster. 
> 
> Ch 8 cw: death of a minor character, one moment of fat-shaming, some flippancy about seminary/priesthood

**July 2003**

Sunlight filtered through the leaves, leaving dappled shadows on the picnic blanket below. Aziraphale lay flat on her back, watching a black-and-white woodpecker investigate one of the higher branches in the apple tree. A bee bumbled by, its low buzz mingling with the birdsong all around them. Aziraphale couldn’t remember ever feeling so peaceful. 

Next to her, Crowley rolled over, tossing her sunglasses to the side and closing her eyes instead. 

She’d started wearing the sunglasses most days. They weren’t prescription – Lucille had apparently scoffed when Crowley asked to be taken to an optometrist and told her to stop exaggerating, a story which still sent Aziraphale into a silent rage whenever she thought about it – but they still seemed to give some partial relief for her headaches. Aziraphale secretly thought that Crowley would look adorable in actual spectacles (although she was careful not to use the word “adorable” within Crowley’s earshot), but she did miss seeing Crowley’s eyes, and felt deeply grateful that Crowley sometimes took them off when it was just the two of them.

These moments were rare now. Aziraphale couldn’t get away as often without the ready excuse of study groups, and so had to cobble together excuses like patchwork, only able to plan ahead in short bursts. She had been so afraid that Crowley would grow sick of this arrangement, that she’d chafe at the limited time Aziraphale managed to keep free and go off to find someone else who could spend the night and hold her hand in public. 

But Crowley had just nodded, golden eyes solemn, when Aziraphale stood up to go after only half an hour, or could only give a tentative “maybe” to their next date, or flinched away during a walk when she thought she had seen someone from church. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what she had done to deserve such patience, but Crowley brushed off all attempts at apologies, and somehow they made their ways through the summer – through hazy days that seemed lightning-quick when they were together and treacle-slow when they were apart. 

Aziraphale had a conditional offer from Cambridge, contingent upon a successful performance at her A-levels. She thought the exams had gone well, and had tentatively begun allowing herself to imagine a future at university, over two hours from Tadfield. Too far for a daily commute, too far for a surprise visit from her parents or Gabriel. 

Not too far from Peterborough, where Crowley had received her own conditional offer. They’d be less than an hour’s drive apart, and Crowley had been saving up money for her own car for years with the dogged determination of one who believed she was destined to become a terror on the roads. Aziraphale wished it was closer still, but couldn’t truly begrudge the distance given all that would accompany it – longer visits, uninterrupted time together, and Crowley at the wheel. (She knew Crowley would inevitably be a speed demon on the motorways, but how bad could it be?) 

“Penny for your thoughts,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale realized she’d been quiet for some time. 

“Just imagining what it’ll be like in the fall,” Aziraphale wiggled on the blanket until she was perfectly tucked against Crowley. 

“Ah yes, the Cambridge scholar,” Crowley teased. “Soon to be the world-famous author, no doubt.” Her voice was light, but her eyes were unbearably fond. 

Aziraphale blushed. Crowley was the only one she had told about her authorial ambitions, as her family generally regarded fiction as a waste of time, to be left behind in childhood. Aziraphale therefore kept only one shelf in her bedroom, with a very visible row of self-improvement texts – although if anyone had looked behind this row, between these volumes and the wall, they might have found another small set of books, which rotated as Aziraphale methodologically worked her way through every Georgette Heyer title the Tadfield library possessed. 

“I looked it up and there are trains between Cambridge and Peterborough, so I can make the trip too and you won’t always have to be driving.” Aziraphale still felt shy about speaking so openly, giving voice to the actual prospect of a shared future. She still couldn’t quite believe this was something she got to have. 

“Very intrepid of you,” Crowley nodded. 

“Oh, hush, I _like_ train journeys.” 

“Of course you do. Speaking of looking things up, I’m making an exhaustive list of Cambridge restaurants so we can try them all. One of them’s got two Michelin stars, and apparently they do fancy sorbet.” 

“Restaurants!” Aziraphale gasped. “We’ll be able to go to restaurants!” 

“’Course,” Crowley grinned, “The student dining hall’s gonna get boring after a while.”

This was undoubtedly true, but Aziraphale, rather than picturing fancy sorbet or gravlax with dill sauce or any other mouthwatering dish, was thinking instead of Crowley – sitting opposite her across a white tablecloth and a candle, sharing her food so Aziraphale didn’t have to pick just one entrée, tangling their legs together under the table. A proper date, in public, together, with no fear. 

“Just us,” Crowley said, as if reading Aziraphale’s mind. “Our own side.” 

“I can’t wait,” said Aziraphale softly. 

**August 2003**

Aziraphale burst into the dining room, beaming widely.

“I did it!” 

Her father looked up from his newspaper, frowning. 

“Close the door, Aziraphale, you know I don’t like it left open.” 

Aziraphale hurried to comply, then spun around again. 

“I’ve gotten my results! I passed every exam and I’m confirmed for Cambridge!” 

“I should hope so, you spent enough time studying,” he said. Aziraphale bit her lip, and he seemed to soften a little. “But yes, well done, good news.” Aziraphale swelled with pride, her smile returning. 

“What’s good news?” Gabriel came in, leaving the door open behind him. 

“I’ve officially gotten into Cambridge!” Aziraphale said. 

“I thought that happened ages ago.” 

“No, that was the conditional offer, it was dependent on my exam scores. But my results were good!”

“Ah, I thought it was all settled already.” Gabriel turned to their father. “When you have a chance I’d like to discuss a few things, I’ve just been to speak with the reverend.”

“No time like the present.” He beckoned for Gabriel to sit down. Aziraphale watched them, her spirits sagging slightly. She looked around. 

“Is Mother upstairs?” 

“Yes, but she’s asleep. Don’t wake her up just for this, you can tell her later,” Gabriel said. 

“Of course,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Yes. I might just – just go for a walk then.”

Neither man was listening to her anymore. 

“I’ll just –” She slipped out, closing the door to the dining room behind her. 

\---

“What’d I tell you? Official Cambridge scholar, you’ve only gone and bloody done it!” Crowley whooped and swept Aziraphale into a wild hug. Aziraphale squeezed her back, unable to keep the grin from spreading across her face. 

“And you? You got yours?” 

“Yup. Peterborough can’t get rid of me now,” Crowley laughed. “We’re in, we made it!” 

“We made it!” Aziraphale agreed. “Our own side,” she said, more softly. 

**September 2003**

Crowley’s term started earlier than Aziraphale’s, which Aziraphale was trying resolutely not to think about. The difference was only about two weeks, she could absolutely handle herself on her own in Tadfield for two weeks. She had done it for years before even meeting Crowley, after all. It was just that, now that Aziraphale knew what it was like to have someone in her corner, to have Crowley indignant on her behalf or appreciative of her humor or flustered at her compliments, she dreaded the thought of going back to the way things used to be. 

“Right,” Crowley said, surveying her bed, upon which was piled apparently every article of clothing she owned, and then looking at a single black suitcase. “This requires some contemplation.” 

“I’ve read that if you roll clothes, rather than fold them, it’s more space-efficient,” Aziraphale piped up from her position by the closet, where she was currently regarding about seven pairs of black boots, each quite similar to the next. 

“Brilliant,” Crowley agreed. “And then Plan B is give up and chuck half of it back in the closet.” 

“Seems reasonable,” Aziraphale crossed the room to give Crowley a quick kiss, upon which Crowley promptly dropped the coat she’d been holding. “I’m afraid I have to go for now. But don’t you dare leave before I can see you again, I mean it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley nudged their foreheads together for a moment, then stepped back. “I’m getting myself a cell phone, too. It’ll set back the car budget a little, but this way you can call me whenever you want.” 

“I’d love that,” Aziraphale said. “Right then, toodles!”

“Toodles,” Crowley repeated, mockingly. Aziraphale threw a stray sock at her on her way out the door. 

She was still smiling as she passed by the church lane to return to her house. Turning the corner, she stopped short. 

_No._

Aziraphale dropped her purse and started sprinting toward the house. 

_Please no._

She practically collided with the police car, craning her neck to see into the ambulance that stood in front of the Fell driveway. 

_She’s been doing so well._

The ambulance was empty. She distantly heard Gabriel’s voice coming from somewhere nearby, and then felt someone grab her elbow. 

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel’s voice again. “ _Aziraphale_. Come on –” 

“Is it – has she – ”

“It’s not Mum,” he said. “It’s Dad.”

\---

For as long as Aziraphale could remember, it was her mother they worried about – her shifting symptoms and diagnoses, her flare-ups and recoveries, her moods and her needs. The Fell household was guarded carefully against any disruptions to her mother’s fragile constitution, whether from light, noise, or stress. The curtains were perpetually drawn, the lamps deliberately dim. Aziraphale had learned to always keep her footfalls light on the wooden staircase, pressing close to the wall to avoid the creaky spots. Above all, she knew to remain attentive and obedient, to fulfill instructions the first time she was told, and to avoid adding any more problems to the family pile. 

Everything else was secondary. And if Aziraphale’s father sometimes grew short-tempered with her or Gabriel got that nasty glint in his eye, well, they were under a lot of stress and only human. 

Her mother was the frail one. Her mother had the health risk. In every anxiety dream Aziraphale had ever had, in every horrid scenario she imagined while fretting about the future, her father was always, always fine. 

A heart attack, the doctors said. The kind they called the widow-maker. He hadn’t suffered long. 

Aziraphale numbly went through the appropriate motions in the following days. Flowers arrived. Phone calls flooded in. A funeral was arranged. Crowley attended, standing quietly in the back of the church. They didn’t speak.

\---

“Well, at least we won’t be hungry,” Aziraphale said, mostly to herself, as she stacked the final casserole into the refrigerator. Tadfield parishioners might be tightly-wound and quick to judgment, but they knew their duties for grief. 

“That’ll keep you happy, eh?” Gabriel stood by the window, twitching aside a curtain to look out at the street in twilight. Aziraphale bit her lip. _He’s upset,_ she reminded herself. The kitchen now spotless, she took a seat at the table and watched her brother. 

“You did a beautiful job with the eulogy today,” she said softly. “You’ll be a natural as a vicar.”

“Yes, that reminds me,” Gabriel said, “I’m leaving Monday for London. The reverend put in a good word to one of his friends and a spot in housing opened up.”

“Sorry?” Aziraphale blinked. 

“For seminary, Aziraphale, do keep up.”

“You’re leaving? _Monday_? But – but what about Mother?” 

“Oh, she knows. I found out last week, she and Father and I all talked it over,” Gabriel said. “You weren’t home,” he added pointedly. Aziraphale felt her leg jiggling under the table and made a conscious effort to stop it. 

“Couldn’t you defer it for a little while? I’m sure Reverend Sandalphon will support you, he knows Mother needs help.”

“Father wouldn’t have wanted that,” Gabriel said. “It would be letting down his memory. If anything, now I have even more reason to go – for his sake. You know that, don’t you?”

“But – there’s a parish here, and two more in Abington, why do you have to go to London?”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “When the Almighty calls you to service, you do not question it.” 

“But I’m supposed to start Cambridge in October,” Aziraphale said weakly. “It’s all set, I told you.”

Gabriel frowned. “You can’t leave Mother by herself.”

“I thought you were going to be home with her.” Aziraphale felt sick. “You always said you wanted to train with the Reverend here.”

“Well, that was the plan, yes, but the Reverend thinks I have great potential and should get to experience a larger congregation.” 

“But–”

“Honestly, Aziraphale, it’s not my fault you haven’t been paying attention. If you insist on hanging out with – with _farmhands_ instead of spending time with your family, of course you’re going to miss things.” 

There was a moment of heart-stopping silence.

“What–” Aziraphale cut herself off. 

“Is it farmhand?” Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “Orchardeer? No, that’s not right. What’s a cowpoke?”

“You–” Aziraphale’s heart had re-started, and now seemed to be going at five times its normal speed. 

“I know you’ve been carrying on your little study group with the Crowley girl, yes.” Gabriel sounded bored. “You probably traded math help for English tutoring, yes? Well, if she needs to retake her A-levels that’s her responsibility, it’s not a reason for charity. Tell her to read more books.” 

Aziraphale sagged in her seat, blood roaring in her ears. He didn’t know. She and Crowley must have gotten sloppy, maybe seen by one of the church ladies, but he’d jumped to a conclusion and he didn’t _know_. A tiny part of her brain, below the warning klaxons, felt a flash of irritation at his assumption that Crowley must have had trouble on her exams. 

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “You’re right.”

“Great, glad that’s all sorted.” Gabriel gave her an exaggerated smile. “Knew you’d come through for us. Cambridge has been around for centuries, right? No need to rush.” He clapped Aziraphale on the back as he strode past her, heading upstairs with no further conversation. 

Aziraphale sat in the dark kitchen for a very long time. 

\---

“I’m not going to Cambridge.” 

Crowley stilled, peering at Aziraphale’s face as if looking for hidden messages. They were standing at the corner of the town green, under the weathered bandstand where the primary school choir sometimes performed. Crowley had train tickets for the next day. 

“What?” 

“Gabriel got into seminary. He left for London yesterday. And obviously my mother can’t be on her own, so I’m not – I can’t – I’m going to stay here.” 

“Gabriel _left_?”

“Yes. Apparently it had been in the works for a while, they just hadn’t – I hadn’t heard about it.” 

“But they knew you were going to Cambridge, they’ve known this whole time! For months!” Crowley’s stillness had abruptly given way to frantic motion, pacing in tight little circles in front of Aziraphale, her eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s face. 

“Yes, well – yes.” Aziraphale said. “But obviously everything’s different now, so we have to make some sacrifices.” 

“ _We_?” Crowley yelped. “Then why didn’t Gabriel sacrifice his? Or do it closer? There are churches everywhere, I’m sure any of ‘em could give him the gist!”

“I did point that out, but the reverend encouraged him to go to London so he’s following his guidance.”

“Oh, well, if the _reverend_ says so, of course,” Crowley snarled. Aziraphale winced. 

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale said. “I know it’s upsetting, but Gabriel has worked very hard, and he’s wanted this for so long–”

“What about what _you_ want?” 

“That’s not – I can’t just – it’s more complicated than that.” 

Crowley stopped pacing. She looked like she was actively trying to reign herself in. 

“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry I shouted. So you’re deferring a year?”

“Ah – no, I’m afraid. I would have needed to request a deferral on my application, and that was obviously before all this happened. I did call the department, but apparently there’s nothing that can be done about it.” 

“So you’re just – giving up your spot completely?” 

Aziraphale found herself briefly unable to speak. She nodded mutely. Crowley roughly scrubbed her hands over her face, finally breaking eye contact, and said nothing. A long moment passed, tension heavy between them for the first time since the previous Christmas Eve. 

Finally Crowley broke the silence. 

“I thought… ” Crowley trailed off, looking down at her feet. She started again. “I thought we’d, you know. Go off together.” 

“I know.” Aziraphale fought to keep her voice steady. “I know we talked about it, but it wasn’t realistic, you must see that.” 

“Not realistic,” Crowley echoed. She still hadn’t looked up.

“I can’t just leave, Crowley, no matter how – how fond I am of you.” 

“Fond.” Crowley repeated dully. She started rummaging in her jacket with one hand, and Aziraphale realized with a sinking feeling that she was looking for her sunglasses. 

“You know what I mean,” she said desperately. “You must know.”

“You know what I know?” Crowley said, finally looking up, sunglasses in place. Aziraphale swallowed heavily as she looked into opaque black lenses. 

“I know we can’t keep doing this.” Crowley said. “Not like this.”

“Crowley–”

“I thought,” Crowley pressed on, relentlessly, “if I played by all your rules, then someday we’d get to be together for real. Our own side. But you’re never going to choose that, are you?” 

“I–” Aziraphale’s mind spun frantically but no words came out of her mouth. A leaden certainty began to creep in, dread settling into every limb. She had to say something. 

She said nothing. 

“Right,” Crowley said, breathing heavily. “Well then.” 

_Say something now!_

She said nothing.

Crowley turned away. 

_Anything!_

She said nothing. 

“Have a nice life,” Crowley shot, over her shoulder. 

She said nothing.


	9. Wednesday, December 13th, 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still a bit of a difficult chapter, but things are starting to turn. I promise we are getting closer to our happy ending! 
> 
> Ch 9 cw: alcohol

She hadn’t seen or heard from Crowley since the party. 

Which should not be a surprise, Aziraphale reminded herself forcefully, any time her thoughts began to drift in a melancholy direction. Crowley had her book information, the only thing Aziraphale could provide properly, and so there was no need for further interaction. She’d been foolish to expect anything to come of Crowley’s return to town in the first place, and her thoughts of mistletoe reconnaissance at Tracy’s flat had been nothing short of delusion. Crowley lived in London now, she was a successful senior consultant (whatever that meant), and she surely could attract whomever she wanted without resorting to pinning responsibility on a plant. She had probably just called her “angel” because it was less of a mouthful than “Aziraphale”. 

_Just leave it_ , Aziraphale thought, as she turned onto the last block of her walk home. Crowley would be leaving after Christmas, Beez was selling the farm, and the past was well and truly in the past. This was just a blip. She just had to make it to January and then it would all be behind her. 

She let herself into the house quietly in case her mother was asleep, and went to make herself a cup of tea. 

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale jumped, startled, and then fumbled for the light switch on the kitchen wall. Frances Fell sat at the table, fingers steepled, spine straight. 

“Mother, you startled me! Why were you sitting in the dark?” 

“It got dark around me, I suppose. I thought you would be home earlier.” 

“I had a full shift today, it’s Wednesday.” 

“No matter,” Frances said mildly. Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether to be grateful she’d let the subject drop so easily, or concerned that she might have forgotten the day of the week. 

“Would you like me to put the kettle on?”

Her mother inclined her head in a nod, and Aziraphale bustled to set the water boiling. 

“How was your day?” She asked cheerily, over her shoulder. 

“Ah, fine, fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” 

They waited in silence for the kettle. Aziraphale’s hand hovered for a moment over the angel-wing mug in the cabinet, which was usually her favorite, and then moved to select a plain blue mug instead. 

“How are you getting along at work?” Her mother asked, as Aziraphale carefully brought over the tea. Aziraphale brightened instantly. 

“Really well, actually! I’ve organized a read-along for the winter–” Dimly, she remembered Gabriel warning her not to mention the read-along to Frances, but Gabriel wasn’t here, and Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually had anything to share from her work day that felt like her own achievement. 

“Surely the people who come to your library can already read?” Frances sipped her tea. 

“Well, yes, but it’s meant to encourage people to read more than they otherwise might by breaking it down into manageable pieces,” Aziraphale hurried to explain. “And it brings a sense of community to what is typically quite a solitary hobby. I’ve drawn up a wall calendar so you can see everyone’s progress and it’s really taken off. The Them are all racing each other now, and everyone seems to like the stickers. And the best part is, everyone who updates the calendar stops to talk to me about the books they’re reading!”

Aziraphale’s work day had indeed been full of enjoyable interruptions, as she’d heard about Wensleydale’s growing love for Kurt Vonnegut as he devoured _Cat’s Cradle_ , spent her lunch break refereeing an impromptu debate between two elderly women over _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_ , and weighed in on whether cooking one’s way through a cookbook counted as reading (yes, most assuredly, Aziraphale had opined; a book that resulted in a snack was very much a win-win situation). The sight of a library patron approaching her desk had become, incredibly, a source of anticipation rather than dread. 

“It’s the first time I’ve really gotten to connect with people through the library, it’s all become much more pleasantly interactive,” Aziraphale continued. “People are actually using the read-along bookmarks I printed so no one is dog-earing any pages, and I haven’t had to threaten anyone with a fine in weeks!” She beamed proudly at her mother. 

Frances sighed.

Aziraphale’s smile dropped. 

“What is it?”

“Ah, I’m just surprised you enjoy this, that’s all.” 

“Well, I – I like talking to people about books,” Aziraphale said uncertainly. Surely this was a safe assertion. 

“As a hobby, certainly. One must have one’s pastimes.” Her mother gazed into the middle distance. 

“…Right.” Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure where this was going, but redirection seemed wise. She stood up and reached out a hand for her mother’s now-empty mug. “Would you like another cup of tea? You’ve finished yours.”

“It’s just I always expected more from you. That you would make something of yourself. You understand.”

Aziraphale stood stock-still, her hand still outstretched. 

“You used to be creative, don’t you remember?” Her mother continued. “When you were little I thought you’d grow up to make a difference to the world. Do the Lord’s work on Earth. You understand.” 

“I –”

“You understand,” Frances repeated. She leaned forward to place her mug in Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale’s fingers felt numb. She fumbled the mug. It shattered on the kitchen floor. 

“Aziraphale!” Her mother sounded shocked. 

“I’m sorry, so sorry, I’ll clean it up,” Aziraphale heard her voice, but it was as if someone else was speaking. Her feet moved her to the cabinet under the sink. Her hands picked up the dustpan. 

“I’m going to take a rest now,” Frances said, slowly getting to her feet. “No dinner for me tonight, I’m afraid I’m not hungry.”

Aziraphale’s head nodded. Her knees bent to bring her to the floor. Her ears dimly registered the creak of the staircase as her mother made her way upstairs. 

_More_.

She threw away the shards of the broken mug. 

_Make something of yourself._

She put away the dustpan. 

_You understand._

She grabbed her keys.

\---

The Adversary was a dingy establishment with a poor reputation, which nevertheless did very good business in Tadfield. Aziraphale had never been inside, preferring Tadfield’s main pub for its higher sanitation standards and famous sweet potato oven chips. There was a chance, she thought now, as she pushed the door open, that someone would tell Gabriel she’d been here. But anyone hoping to gossip would have to account for their own presence in The Adversary, which might be enough to put them off the idea of snitching to the vicar. Aziraphale decided she’d take her chances, and sat at the bar. 

“What can I getcha, love?” The bartender ambled over, looking greasy but somehow kind. 

“Um.” Aziraphale hadn’t thought this far ahead. “Do you have red wine?” 

“We do, but it’s crap.” He said this without apparent remorse. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale tried to think. “What do you recommend?” 

“Aziraphale?”

She knew who it was before she even turned around. How could she not? 

“Crowley,” she breathed. 

“What are you doing here?” Crowley approached her gingerly, stopping a few feet away. She held a short glass full of something amber, and despite the dim light was wearing those damnable sunglasses. 

She was still the best thing Aziraphale had ever seen. 

“Are you – meeting someone?” Crowley asked. 

“No!” Aziraphale said instantly. “No, I just – I just needed a breather. Some time on my own.” 

“Oh. Got it.” Crowley raised her glass and started backing away. “I’ll leave you to it, eh?” 

“No!” Aziraphale said again, much louder. “No, don’t go.” 

Crowley froze in place. 

“Please stay,” Aziraphale said, softer. “I – I don’t know what to order.”

“Well, that I can help with,” Crowley said, looking relieved. 

“What are you drinking?” 

“Old Fashioned, with apple cider.” 

“Fitting,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound lighthearted. She turned back to the greasy bartender, who had been waiting patiently. “I’ll have the same, please.” 

“You can put hers on my tab, Johnson,” Crowley interjected. He nodded. 

“Oh, you didn’t have to – ”

“Eh, it’s already open.” Crowley shrugged. She sat down at last, taking the seat next to Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiled weakly at her, and Crowley’s brow furrowed. 

“You okay?”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said.

“Ah. This is just one of your routine evenings alone at the seedy pub, then?” 

Aziraphale snorted despite herself. “I’ve actually never been in here before.” 

“I’m floored.”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale accepted her new drink from Greasy Johnson. “I had an unpleasant conversation with my mother, and I needed to get out of the house for a while. I chose this place because I didn’t want anyone to talk to me.”

“How’s that working out for you?” Crowley was trying to be glib, but she still looked a little tense.

“Present company excluded,” Aziraphale said, and was glad to see Crowley relax minutely. They sipped their drinks in silence for a few moments. Aziraphale was pleasantly surprised by the combination of apple cider and bourbon. 

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Crowley eventually offered, addressing this to her glass. 

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it.” Aziraphale sighed. “None of it will surprise you, it’s the same old story.” 

“Tell it anyway?” Crowley took off her sunglasses. 

Aziraphale’s reply died in her throat. 

In the Bentley, at the party, up until now – Crowley had kept the sunglasses on. Aziraphale hadn’t seen her eyes since they were both eighteen. The sight of them now hit Aziraphale like a wave, memories crashing in of afternoons in the orchard, stolen moments between classes, a fateful evening after church. 

Aziraphale took a ragged breath and let it out. Then another. 

“My mother doesn’t like that I’m a librarian,” Aziraphale said, finally. “She said that she expected more from me. That I’d do more with my life.” 

“That’s bullshit,” Crowley said in a low voice. “And what’s more, it’s cruel.” 

“She doesn’t mean to be cruel,” Aziraphale said automatically. “And I’m used to it from Gabriel. But I thought she understood me a little better. I thought she knew that I – that I’m doing my best. That I’m trying.” 

Crowley touched the back of her hand softly, and Aziraphale, without thinking, flipped her palm to interlace their fingers. 

“You’ve done so well, Aziraphale. You’re a wonderful librarian. Even that gang of teenagers thinks so, and only a fool would cross them.” 

Aziraphale gave a snuffly laugh, feeling the press of tears in her throat. She tried to gather her thoughts. The moment of silence stretched long between them, but she felt nothing but patience from Crowley.

“I gave up so much to stay here,” Aziraphale said, finally. Crowley squeezed her hand. “So Gabriel could have his career. So Mother wouldn’t be alone.” 

“I know,” Crowley murmured. 

“So that I could be what they _wanted_ ,” Aziraphale was crying in earnest now, her face surely blotchy and crumpled. “But they still don’t– they–”

“They don’t deserve you, angel.” Crowley’s voice was impossibly gentle. “They never have.” 

“And I – I gave up my chance at Cambridge, I gave up the writing, I gave up–” 

There was time to stop herself, she had enough wits left, she could still–

“– I gave up you.” Aziraphale finished wretchedly. 

Crowley’s grip on Aziraphale’s hand was much too tight now, her golden eyes were huge in her pale face, but her voice was still soft. 

“None of that was fair to you, angel. Those were not free choices.”

“They’re supposed to be my _family_ ,” Aziraphale whispered. 

Crowley stood up and held out her other arm, a trifle awkwardly. Aziraphale fell into the embrace like a magnet finding north. She buried her face against Crowley’s shoulder, feeling soft copper hair across her cheek, wrapping her arms fiercely around Crowley’s narrow frame as if she might be torn away. 

“You were more my family than they ever were,” Aziraphale whispered. “And I – I just let you leave–”

“Shh, it’s behind us,” Crowley said, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s hair. “It’s in the past, don’t give it another thought. You were doing your best in an impossible situation. Let’s focus on how we can help you now.”

Aziraphale looked up, brow wrinkling in confusion. 

“Do you have a place to stay tonight, just to get some space?” Crowley made no move to resist as Aziraphale’s grip tightened again. Aziraphale shook her head.

“I have to go back. She’ll need her evening meds, I don’t have any of my books – I can’t just run off like this.” 

“Well, if you change your mind, you can always come stay at the farm for a bit,” Crowley said, somehow avoiding eye contact despite still being very, very close. “There’s a – I can sleep on the sofa. Not much in the way of books there, but you could borrow that fly book from Beez.” 

Aziraphale felt a fresh wave of tears coming on. “That’s very kind of you,” she said, voice wobbly. 

“Shut up,” Crowley shrugged as best she could without letting go of Aziraphale. “And I mean it, you can just turn up. Even if it’s late.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Aziraphale promised. She was already feeling better, if a bit hollowed out and exhausted. With this also came the realization that she’d been holding onto Crowley for far longer than was socially acceptable and everyone else in the bar had been watching them for the last half of their conversation. Greasy Johnson had at some point surreptitiously left a stack of bar napkins next to Aziraphale’s glass. She let go of Crowley regretfully, and turned to blow her nose noisily into one of the napkins. 

“What were you doing here anyway?” She asked, once she had wiped her eyes and regained some composure. “Where’s Beez?” 

“Oh, they hate this place, won’t set foot in it. But we’ve fighting about the farm a bit and we’re out of liquor, so here I am.” Crowley shrugged, although her air of nonchalance didn’t quite hold up. 

“Do they want to keep the farm after all?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a bit hopeful. 

“I thought they did. I offered to put in some money, you know, be kind of an absentee partner. That went down like a lead balloon. Think they might be getting sick of me.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, glad to think about someone else’s dilemma for a moment. “I don’t know about that. I’d never seen them at Tracy’s party before this year, you know. She always invites them, but they never attend. Maybe you were what made the difference.” 

Crowley looked thoughtful. “I didn’t know that. They just said they wanted to go.” She shook her head decisively. “Anyway, that’s a problem for Future Crowley. You gonna be all right?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said firmly. “I’m going to go home and read my books, like a proper librarian. Because that’s what I am.” She lifted her chin defiantly, and Crowley grinned. 

“Give ‘em hell, angel.”


	10. Friday, December 15th, 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change is in the air, folks! 
> 
> (Yes, I did increase the chapter count slightly, shhh.)

Aziraphale didn’t give anyone hell, of course. After her chance encounter with Crowley at The Adversary, she came home quietly, fixed herself a snack quietly, went upstairs quietly, and began looking for a flat. 

Pickings were slim. Her budget wasn’t large, and none of the current vacancies were within walking distance of the library, which meant she would need to factor in a car payment in addition to rent. She fell asleep with her phone still in her hand. 

The next two days passed in deceptive calm. Aziraphale was polite to her mother, who hadn’t seemed to think anything of their previous conversation. She went to work. She made dinner. Throughout it all, a steady feeling of purpose persisted, thrumming under her skin. 

Crowley had texted her just to check in. _U ok? Offer stands._

Aziraphale kept her reply brief. _I’m okay, sorting through some things. Thank you for everything._

There was more she wanted to say, but she couldn’t say it yet. In truth, she wasn’t sure Crowley wanted to hear it at all. In all the emotional tumult of Wednesday, in the midst of her grief for what she had lost and what she never had, as her instinctive excuses fell away and left her family’s behavior in painfully clear view, Aziraphale had a single moment of piercing clarity in Crowley’s arms. 

This. This was what she wanted. 

But –

 _It’s in the past,_ Crowley had said. _It’s behind us._ And then, accompanying her invitation to the farm, _I can sleep on the sofa._

Aziraphale’s family, her church, her nerves – none of it was enough to stop her anymore. But if Crowley, who had shown her such unwavering kindness, who had never tried to push a boundary, who had put Aziraphale first every single time they spoke – if she wanted to move on, at last, Aziraphale would respect that. If Crowley had decided their window was closed, it was the least Aziraphale could do to accept it gracefully and leave Crowley in peace. 

Friday was an unusually slow day for the library, which suited Aziraphale just fine. She lingered over her lunch break, Googling various iterations of “best automobile for nervous driver” on her phone. She could ask Newt for advice, she supposed, except his car looked like it had been constructed by Playmobil and was, somewhat unsettlingly, named Dick Turbin (Aziraphale had never asked why). 

She was in the stacks, re-shelving books and tutting over their condition, when Newt called her name. 

“Is it the scanner again?” Aziraphale asked. “If you smell burning, just run, it’s not worth – oh, hello Madame Tracy!”

“Aziraphale, hello! I thought we might have a little chat if Newt can spare you for a moment?” 

Since nothing was actively on fire, Aziraphale nodded. “Of course!” She ushered Madame Tracy over to a pair of comfy, worn-in armchairs. Newt looked relieved to see them go – Tracy always made him a bit flustered. 

“What can I do for you?” Aziraphale asked, already racking her brain for possible book recommendations. Madame Tracy had borrowed that snake demon book, perhaps Aziraphale could get her a wider occult selection through inter-library loan? 

“Well, as it happens…” Tracy trailed off dramatically and extended her left hand with a flourish. The diamond on her finger winked in the warm light of the library. 

Aziraphale gasped. “You’re engaged?!” 

“Thought it was about time to be getting on with it, if I’m honest. I had the ring already – long story, an old client of mine, years ago, spot of bother with a jewel heist – anyway, we’re thinking of a summer wedding!” 

“Congratulations!” Aziraphale said, and meant it. Her acquaintance with the Sergeant was very slight; other than his canapé-laden entrance at Tracy’s party, Aziraphale had only seen him in bulgy-eyed, mustachioed passing. But if Tracy was happy, that was enough. 

“But we’re moving in together right away,” Tracy continued, warmly conspiratorial. “I was afraid he’d want to wait until the wedding – he’s more traditional than you’d think, bless him – but we’ve talked it over. His house is too big for him, you know, it can get to feeling empty. Needs a feminine touch.” She winked at Aziraphale, who gulped. Madame Tracy’s powers of feminine touch were doubted by no one. 

“Well, that all sounds – lovely,” she managed. 

“Anyway, that’s the bit that I wanted to talk to you about,” Tracy said.

“The – feminine touch?” 

“My flat,” Madame Tracy took pity on Aziraphale’s floundering. “Over the bakery. I’ve lived there for over thirty years, you know. It’s very special to me. And I think you would be the perfect tenant.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. There was no such thing as psychics, surely, and yet –

“You could move in as early as Monday,” Tracy carried on airily. She gave no indication that she noticed Aziraphale’s growing shock, except that somehow her hand without the ring found Aziraphale’s and squeezed. “I’m leaving it furnished, except for a few favorites I’ll bring with me to the Sergeant’s. And there’s one or two things I’ll have to remove from the bedroom,” she added as an afterthought. 

“I – I don’t know what to say,” Aziraphale said weakly. “How did you know – ”

“You’ll still be able to walk to work,” Madame Tracy interrupted. “Plus I’ve already spoken to Anathema and she’d be delighted to have you over the bakery, said you’re one of her best customers.” 

Aziraphale thought of the fresh bread smell that Tracy’s flat always had. Her lip wobbled. 

“I can – if I don’t have to buy a car I can pay more for the rent – ”

“Just the utilities, love,” Madame Tracy said. “And if anything breaks, you call me and I’ll send the Sergeant over, he does like to feel useful.” 

“I can’t possibly accept this,” Aziraphale whispered. Tracy patted her hand gently. 

“I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have live there. Just take some time, have a think about it, all right?” 

She let go of Aziraphale’s hand and got to her feet with some difficulty – the armchairs did have a way of sucking one in. 

“Now then,” Tracy said briskly, “I’m afraid that while I’m here, I _am_ going to check out another book.” She winked, and swept off, leaving Aziraphale staring after her with her mouth open. 

\--- 

It was snowing again. Aziraphale took in deep breaths of the cold air, standing in the street behind the library. Her shift wasn’t quite over yet, but the only patron in the library was Anathema, whom Newt would be more than eager to help if she required any assistance. 

Aziraphale watched the snowflakes. She had replayed her conversation with Tracy over and over, looking for any trap, any misunderstanding, any reason at all this might be snatched away. Now her mind felt, finally, quiet. 

She stepped back through the back door of the library, intending to say good night to Newt and to apologize for being so distracted lately. When she reached the main reading room, she paused. 

Anathema was poring over a book, gesticulating animatedly as she explained something. Newt was leaning over her chair to see the book, his hand very close to landing on her shoulder. They were both smiling. 

Aziraphale backed out quietly. She set the community room and young adult section to rights for the night, and locked every door but the front, leaving that for Newt whenever his evening ended. As she slipped out of the library, she could hear quiet laughter from the main reading room, and smiled. 

\---

Gabriel turned up for dinner that night, regaling Aziraphale and Frances with a detailed play-by-play of his upcoming sermon for the third Sunday of Advent. Aziraphale cleared the plates from the table and waited for the right moment. 

Sermon preview concluded, Gabriel paused to draw breath and take a sip of tea. Aziraphale cleared her throat. 

“I have some news,” she said. She couldn’t quite look at Gabriel or her mother, so she stared determinedly at her angel-winged mug. 

“You’ve already told us about your read-a-thon thing,” Gabriel said dismissively. 

“No, it’s not about that. I – I’m getting my own apartment.”

There was a long silence. Aziraphale didn’t take her eyes off the angel mug even as they began to water. 

“I beg your pardon?” Gabriel said. He didn’t sound angry, just puzzled, as if there had been a mix-up somewhere that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

“I’m moving out. Not far, I’ll still be in town.” 

“What about Mother?” Gabriel demanded. Next to him, Frances said nothing. 

“You’re right down the road,” Aziraphale said, just as she’d rehearsed the whole way home. “It’s barely a five minute drive to the rectory. You could even move back here if you wanted, Gabriel, or move Mother in with you if she prefers. And I’ll be close by, so I can still come for dinner sometimes and help with doctor’s appointments.”

Gabriel’s face was turning red now, moving past confusion to anger. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Aziraphale said. Her voice was shaky even to her own ears. She wouldn’t be surprised if the angel mug started levitating, with how fixedly she was staring at it. 

“You’re just going to leave your own mother?”

“I’ve never left, Gabriel.” She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. “You did, though.” 

From the corner of her eye, she could see Gabriel gaping at her, apparently lost for words. 

“It’s not far,” Aziraphale repeated. “I’ll still spend time with you both. I just need my own space.”

“You – you – ” Gabriel found his words again. “You are the most _ungrateful_ –”

“She’s right, Gabriel.” Frances said. Aziraphale and Gabriel both turned to her in disbelief, Aziraphale so surprised that she forgot to keep her eyes on the mug and ended up looking her mother square in the face. 

“ _What_?” Gabriel shouted.

“…What?” Aziraphale echoed.

Frances regarded her with an inscrutable expression, then nodded once, seeming satisfied with whatever she had found. 

“It’s time.”

“But – ” Gabriel began. Frances lifted a hand imperiously and he fell silent.

“I have no desire to live in the rectory. You may move back here if you feel so strongly about it.” 

Gabriel started to say something, stopped himself, and in the end merely made a strange gurgling noise. 

“When will you be moving out?” Frances asked. 

“Next week,” Aziraphale said, a trifle unsteadily. She had prepared half a dozen more arguments, anticipating a drawn-out negotiation, but she didn’t seem to need them now. She couldn’t have felt more wrong-footed if Armageddon had arrived, done an about-face, and vanished. 

Her mother inclined her head. “Very well then.” 

The conversation was clearly over. Aziraphale cleared the mugs away, aware that Gabriel was glaring at her murderously, but he seemed unwilling to re-open a topic Frances had so definitively closed. 

Slowly, Aziraphale began to feel like she could breathe again. 

“I’ll just – get started packing then,” she said, trying to inject a cheery note into her voice. “Gabriel, can you check that Mother’s had her evening medicine before you leave?” She didn’t wait for an answer, backing out of the kitchen. As she scrambled up the stairs, she wanted more than anything to call Crowley, to tell her that she’d finally taken this step, fourteen years too late or not. 

_It’s in the past,_ she reminded herself. _Let her be._

\---

_This is an official communication from the Them for one Antonia Crowley. Over._

Crowley blinked at her mobile, fully distracted from her work email. She certainly hadn’t given Adam Young her number, but somehow she wasn’t surprised he had acquired it. 

_U dont have to say over unless ur on a walkie-talkie. And its just crowley._

A text bubble appeared almost instantly. 

_No one writes “u” anymore. “You” only has three letters. Over._

Crowley snorted despite herself. Another text bubble popped up. 

_The Them have been conducting extensive reconnaissance on the Tadfield trail network. Our sources indicate that there used to be a trail leading to an outlook with a view of the Morning Star orchard. It is no longer maintained due to a consistent lack of investment in community infrastructure._

The youth these days were very odd, Crowley mused. 

_What follows is a secret map of this lost trail, which we feel you ought to know as an occupant of Morning Star Farms. Be aware that you must keep it in the utmost confidence._

An image of a blurry hand-drawn map followed this text. Crowley squinted at it, then texted back. 

_Cool, thx. Beez n I will check it out._

A final bubble appeared. 

_This message will self-destruct in thirty seconds._

Crowley shook her head, feeling strangely touched. She sent a final work email, then padded down the hallway in bare feet. Beez could almost always be found in the kitchen if they weren’t outside; they said the wide windows let them keep an eye on things, even though there weren’t many things to keep an eye on these days. 

Sure enough, Beez was perched on a kitchen stool, scowling at their phone. Crowley hovered next to the sink, gathering her nerve. They might hate the idea, but that was survivable, Crowley told herself. She’d made it through that first disastrous conversation, after all. 

The two of them had stayed in contact over the years, while Crowley was in Peterborough and later in London. They talked, of course they talked; each was the only family the other had. But Beez’s determination to stay on the farm in Tadfield and Crowley’s equally stubborn insistence on staying away had resulted in a gradual distancing over the years. Crowley wasn’t quite sure she could fully bridge it now. 

“Hey, can I ask you something?” 

“Doubt I can stop you,” Beez said without rancor. 

“I know you don’t take charity and you don’t want me as an absentee partner –

Beez grunted, but Crowley continued undeterred. 

“ – but what about a non-absentee partner?”

Beez said nothing, but Crowley now had their full attention. She pressed on. 

“You’d still be in charge of farm stuff, I’d keep my job. I’d have to travel sometimes. But it turns out my boss doesn’t care if I mostly work remotely.” She paused, “Actually it kind of seems like he prefers it, to be honest.”

Beez’s beady stare was almost painful in its intensity now. “Is this about the blonde librarian?”

Crowley owed it to both of them to answer honestly. She took a moment to think. 

Aziraphale’s admission in The Adversary that she “gave up” Crowley had felt like an earthquake. Over the years, Crowley had grown used to the idea that she was the one who cared more, who tried harder, who felt the loss more keenly. She’d actively tried to counterbalance this instinct with subsequent girlfriends, keeping things casual, fleeing at the first sign of emotional investment. Never again, she thought, would she be caught so unawares. Never again would she give herself so completely to someone only to find that they never planned to reciprocate in kind. Even now, the only update she’d had from Aziraphale was that she was “sorting through some things,” which could mean anything.

But Aziraphale’s anguish the other night certainly seemed to imply that Aziraphale regretted losing Crowley, or at the very least had thought about her in the intervening years. The painful story that Crowley had doggedly repeated to herself until it had lost its bite – that she had been a bit of respite for Aziraphale from her family, a dependable source of moon-eyed adoration, but nothing worth rocking the boat over, no one worth defending – didn’t match up with this new information. If Aziraphale still felt pain at their break-up, fourteen years later, surely Crowley had been important to her after all? Not just as a welcome relief from emotional abuse, but as herself?

But Aziraphale had been vulnerable and sad and a little drunk, and so at that moment in the bar Crowley had shoved aside that revelation. She let herself consider it now, turning it over in her mind. 

Part of Crowley’s brain screamed at her to fix it, to drop everything and go to Aziraphale – find a loophole, sweep her away to the farm, beg her to stay forever. Another part screamed at Crowley to run, to leave everything behind – don’t stop, keep one step ahead of the memories, take any road except the one that leads to Tadfield. 

Brains are liars, sometimes, is the thing. 

“No,” Crowley said. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. But I want to stay anyway.” 

As she said it, she found that it was true. Tadfield was maddeningly small, its community leaders were almost exclusively stodgy old men, and Aziraphale might not ever be in a position to offer Crowley what she wanted. She had come back to town a stranger, intending the trip to be a final coda of sorts, after which she would leave for good with no attachments and no one to miss her. Instead, there was Madame Tracy, who had invited her to a Christmas party just so she wouldn’t be excluded. There were the Them, who liked her enough to share their secrets with her, albeit through overly dramatic messages. There was Beez, who had dug into this land with everything they had. There were the roads, blissfully free of traffic, where she could let the Bentley soar. There were green hills and red apples. 

“I want to stay,” She said again. “What do you think?”

“Fine. But if you’re staying, do it for real.” Beez sounded almost angry. “Don’t run off again.”

“It almost sounds like you missed me,” Crowley teased. 

Beez said nothing. 

“…You missed me?” 

“You’re my little sister. Now shut up.”

“Deal,” Crowley said. She felt almost giddy. Two weeks in this town and she’d become a veritable sap. 

Abruptly, she had a duck in her lap. 

“Yeah, he sneaks up on you,” Beez said, as Crowley smothered a yelp. “I don’t know how, he’s not exactly svelte.” 

“Okay, if I’m staying, I have to know. Why is Harold allowed inside?”

“There was always a rogue duck when we were kids, don’t you remember?” 

“I mean, yeah, but why is there _still_? There’s no way this duck is the same duck.” 

“No, he’s Harold IV, I think.” 

Harold quacked, as if in agreement. 

“But _why_?” 

Beez looked, for a moment, almost soft. 

“Not all of it was bad,” they said. “It helps, a little, to remember that.” Then, seeing Crowley’s expression, they snapped back quickly. “Don’t go getting ideas. If we get goats, they live in the barn, understood?”

“Understood,” Crowley said, and smiled.


	11. Thursday, December 21st, 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the delay on this chapter. There was a COVID scare in my family and then I got behind on work and everything else in my life, but everything (fingers crossed) seems to have worked out. I hope this chapter is worth the wait! All that's left after this is an epilogue.

Aziraphale spent the first few days in her new flat bursting into tears. She’d never been particularly weepy, but now it felt like the slightest little thing set her off, as though her body had decided to release all of its tension in fits and starts. 

The first time she opened the refrigerator – her own refrigerator! – she had found a fresh pumpkin maple cheesecake from Nutter’s Bakery, which Anathema must have slipped in during the bustle of move-in day, and promptly had to sit down on the kitchen floor to have a good cry. The morning she realized there was nothing stopping her now from going to look at the cats at the animal shelter one town over, she sobbed so hard she gave herself a nosebleed, before scrabbling for a pen to write down the address. 

Then there was the back door, which opened onto a narrow set of steps leading to the herb garden behind Nutter’s Bakery. She could come and go whenever she pleased, Aziraphale realized, whether or not the bakery was open, whether she wanted to stop and socialize or slip out unnoticed. She could go for a walk at midnight if she fancied. She could get a cutesy doormat with a bumblebee on it, and no one would scoff. (This last thought came while Aziraphale was browsing Etsy at two in the morning with some prosecco; she ordered the doormat immediately and selected express shipping with happy tears in her eyes.)

It was perfect. And she had to tell Crowley. 

It couldn’t have happened without her friends, of course, a truth which itself was quite overwhelming; until now, Aziraphale hadn’t quite realized she had them. Tracy’s prescient kindness, Anathema’s immediate support, even Newt’s willingness to put Dick Turpin to use hauling boxes of books, they were all of them indispensable – but Crowley was the catalyst, and there could be nothing more fitting. 

Once before, Crowley had offered Aziraphale a way out, and Aziraphale hadn’t taken it. She had no way of knowing how differently her life might have gone, if she hadn’t let that chance go by. She didn’t like to think of it now, to count the years she had spent huddled inside herself, painstakingly following the rules and increasingly bewildered that everything still felt so wrong. She would not make that mistake again. 

Of course, this time around, the chance at freedom didn’t include Crowley herself. 

That was the tricky bit. 

Crowley was leaving Tadfield after the holidays, Aziraphale knew, and she was running out of time. It was too much to hope that Crowley would visit again, given how long she had stayed away before. She deserved to hear, at least once, how grateful Aziraphale was, how much she had helped, how her kindness (however much she might deny the word) had not gone unnoticed nor unappreciated. 

But Aziraphale was afraid, if she were face-to-face with Crowley, that she’d blurt out everything – that she was sorry she’d ever hidden their relationship to begin with, that she should never have let Crowley feel unwanted for even a second, that if she had the chance again she’d do it better, do it right. Given her tendencies of the past week, Aziraphale thought, the odds were very good that she would start blubbering, and Crowley would comfort her – again – and it would become all about Aziraphale’s feelings – again – and that was the opposite of what she wanted to do. 

She’d been putting it off, picking up the phone and immediately losing her nerve, getting to the point of opening her contacts list and then dropping the whole phone as if she’d been scalded. The prospect of a phone call was agonizing and a text seemed insultingly trivial, but if she spoke to Crowley in person she might end up weeping and begging her to stay, probably giving herself another nosebleed while she was at it, which surely would be enough to ruin anyone’s Christmas. Aziraphale couldn’t bear the thought of tainting Crowley’s last days at her childhood home by – as her mother would say – “making a scene,” and yet she didn’t trust herself to keep her composure either. 

She paced in her new living room, trying in vain to soothe herself with the scent of Anathema’s most recent loaves drifting up from the floor below. The library had switched to its holiday schedule, giving her the day off, but so far she hadn’t managed to do much other than fret. Her eyes fell on her new bookshelf, proudly in the open within easy reach of the sofa. Her books, which had been stacked neatly on move-in day by Newt (who was surprisingly organized for someone who couldn’t operate a thermostat), were already beginning to take on the jumbled, cluttered, higgledy-piggledy look that Aziraphale preferred. She felt a pang in her chest as she caught sight of her Jane Austen titles, tucked on the bottom shelf next to her treasured A. A. Milne. Today was the winter solstice, and the last day of the read-along. Perhaps she could text Crowley to see if she had finished _Persuasion_ , then work her way around to the main topic, lend a bit of deniability to the whole conversation – 

_No_ , Aziraphale reminded herself. _Not like that, not anymore._ She turned away from the bookshelf, shoulders slumping. Then she paused, and turned back, inspiration striking at last. 

\---

It was beginning to get dark by the time she’d finished. She put her pen down to survey her work, brushing aside the crumpled remains of her first aborted attempts. She couldn’t get the words right at first, and then she’d been displeased with her handwriting, and then she had startled at a car horn from the street below and smudged one version beyond recovery, but at last she had a final product.

A letter. Dignified, unhurried, perfectly punctuated (including a semi-colon), no chance of tears. Perhaps a bit on-the-nose due to Crowley’s recent foray into Austen, but in a way Aziraphale hoped would come across as clever rather than bizarre. 

It was an earnest note of thanks, a grateful acknowledgement of Crowley’s role in encouraging her to take this leap, and entirely scrubbed clean of Aziraphale’s messier emotions. She gave a firm nod, although there was no one there to see it, and folded the letter carefully. Perfectly satisfactory.

If only she felt satisfied. 

It _had_ felt good, in a way, getting words onto the page. Writing was meant to be cathartic, wasn’t it? That was why people kept journals, why email accounts had draft folders, why children made poems out of refrigerator magnets. 

Without thinking, Aziraphale ripped another page from her notebook, not bothering to remove the ragged edges of the perforations this time. Her pen was somehow in her hand again, her head bent over the desk. 

She wrote a second letter. 

She wasn’t going to send it, of course. This wasn’t actually an Austen novel. But she needed to get it out, just once, just for her own sake. She nearly tore the page at one point, clutching the pen in a hand that had started shaking – when had that happened?

She was breathing hard by the time she sat back in her chair, choking back what might have been a sob. Reaching for an envelope from her desk drawer, she put the first letter inside. Then she checked again to make sure she hadn’t put the wrong one in, a wave of terror sweeping over her at the thought. She sealed it, pausing with her mouth on the envelope for a moment longer than was necessary, eyes closed –

A memory came to her unbidden. Another December evening. Another envelope in her hand. A pair of golden eyes widening in astonishment. 

She shook her head as if she could physically dispel the thought. She was trying to do the right thing here. But if she didn’t mail it now, she was going to lose her nerve. She felt around in the desk drawer again. 

“Bugger,” Aziraphale said, with feeling. 

She didn’t have a stamp. The Tadfield post office, like the library, was currently operating on holiday hours, which was to say, Lesley the postman was making a single round each day and then going home to his wife, and if you wanted to buy stamps in time for Christmas you jolly well ought to have thought of that sooner. 

She eyed the darkening skies outside her window. Morning Star Farms was within walking distance of her flat if you liked walking, which Aziraphale did, and by the time she got there the sun would have fully set and she could slip the letter into the letterbox under cover of night. She would probably feel a little silly, but it was better than sitting here on her own talking herself out of sending it at all. And she couldn’t be “making a scene” if no one saw her, Aziraphale reasoned, already halfway to the door. 

\---

It was a longer walk than she remembered, and Aziraphale was shivering by the time she turned onto the lane that led to the farm, the letter clutched in her mittens. She tried to ignore the sense of painful familiarity; there was a reason she never came down this road normally. Fortunately the letterbox hadn’t changed in fifteen years, although it was rather more rusted from the passage of time. As she approached, Aziraphale realized she was practically tiptoeing, and immediately felt foolish. She took a deep breath and thrust the envelope through the letter slot. 

There. It was done. 

“Excuzzze me.”

Aziraphale nearly leapt out of her skin. She spun around. 

“Ah, Beez! I didn’t see you there!” 

“Apparently.” Beez regarded her coolly from the porch, although the intimidation factor was slightly undercut by the fact that they had a duck clasped under one of their arms. Aziraphale felt panic crawling up her throat and tried to remember that putting letters in letterboxes wasn’t exactly a crime. 

“I was just – just leaving a letter for Crowley. I was going to mail it, but I didn’t have a stamp – and you know the post office isn’t – so I thought – but don’t trouble yourself, you don’t have to fetch her now!” 

“Can’t.” Beez said. “She’s out.” 

“Oh. Right. Well, then I’ll just – ” Aziraphale gestured at the road weakly. She and Beez had never been close – they’d been away at university for most of the time Aziraphale and Crowley had been together as teenagers – but they’d always been cordial when their paths crossed in town in the intervening years. That veneer of politeness didn’t seem to be present now; Beez was watching her with something that looked almost like anger in their eyes. 

“Do have a lovely evening,” Aziraphale felt herself becoming increasingly posh, an innate defense mechanism. Beez merely grunted. Even the duck under their arm seemed to be frowning at Aziraphale. “I mustn’t keep you, I – oh,” she was struck by a sudden thought and her voice raced ahead of her judgment, “Might you ask Crowley not to read the letter until she’s back in London?” 

Beez opened their mouth, and then shut it again, watching her intently. 

“I just wouldn’t want her to feel put on the spot,” Aziraphale hastened to explain. “There’s no rush, and I don’t need a reply, so she can read it at her leisure when the holiday bustle is over.” 

Aziraphale’s heart objected strenuously to this idea – she wouldn’t get to see Crowley’s reaction, would have no chance to test the waters with a hug or a lingering glance. But this way Crowley would know that the sentiment came with no hidden expectations, that she didn’t have to reciprocate or twist herself into knots for the sake of Aziraphale’s feelings anymore, that she could just let it be over if that’s what she wanted. And with a bit of luck, and a bit of time, Aziraphale could begin the muddled process of pulling herself together. 

“I’ll tell her,” Beez’s eyes seemed more curious than angry now. Aziraphale decided this was an improvement and she ought to quit while she was moderately ahead. She bobbed her head nervously in farewell, and scurried back to the safety of the lane. 

On the bright side, the adrenaline still coursing through her from the interaction kept her from getting too chilly on the way home. Unfortunately, this meant Aziraphale had nothing, not even shivering, to distract her from what she had just done.

It was the right thing, the fair thing. She couldn’t possibly make any more demands on Crowley’s time. That didn’t stop the misery beginning to curl into the corners of Aziraphale’s mind, the intrusive whispers that she’d been dramatic, she’d been ridiculous, she’d done nothing more than open herself up to scorn. She imagined Beez opening the letter and laughing at its naïveté, showing Crowley so they could both have a chuckle, or worse, Crowley never bothering to read it at all.

By the time she reached the bakery, Aziraphale was convinced she’d ruined everything. No one sent letters anymore. Crowley didn’t even like to read. What had she been _thinking_? 

Still, it was hard to feel too much despair in the warmth of the quiet flat, where everything was just as she’d left it and her meager collection of possessions had blended cozily with Tracy’s furnishings. Aziraphale pulled off her coat, trying to rein her anxiety back in. 

First things first: tea. Then a hot shower, then flannel pajamas. One foot in front of the other. 

\---

She was wrapped in a fuzzy dressing gown in addition to her pajamas and trying in vain to read a book – anything but Austen – when she heard the rumble of a car engine and the screech of brakes coming to a sudden halt. Aziraphale looked up with a slight frown, which deepened at the sounds of someone taking the steps up to her flat two at a time. She got hesitantly to her feet. 

“Is there someone there?”

“Angel, open the door.” 

Moving as if she were in a dream, as if her body were taking direction from someone other than Aziraphale herself, she stepped forward and unlocked the door to let Crowley inside. 

She got a brief glimpse of a black coat, crimson hair, and then – 

– her letter, being waved in her face. 

“What the hell is this?” 

“What – ” Aziraphale may have been feeling foolish about the letter, but she’d never imagined it would somehow _offend_ Crowley, much less send her barreling across town in a temper. Crowley didn’t wait for her to finish the sentence. 

“Aziraphale, this reads like a – like some kind of – _eulogy_.”

“It’s a thank you note!” Aziraphale said, stung. She wished she weren’t in her pajamas. “And anyway, you weren’t supposed to read it until you got back to London– ”

“I’ll read my own mail whenever I want– ”

“And I certainly had no intention of upsetting you – ”

“No, of course not, why would I be upset by this – this – this _legal document_ – ”

“Oh, really, now,” Aziraphale huffed. She was growing annoyed, but for the first time in her life, the argument wasn’t making her feel small. Perhaps it was the flat at her back, or the knowledge that Crowley was the safest person she knew, but if Crowley wanted to have it out then Aziraphale would damn well match her word for word. 

“Like I’m a bloody solicitor– ”

“You’re being entirely absurd – ”

“Practically a commendation for services to the crown – ”

“Pardon me for trying to show a bit of courtesy – ”

“I’m surprised you didn’t write you were _fond_ of me,” Crowley snarled, and then froze. 

Aziraphale opened her mouth and closed it again. 

In the sudden silence, the clock over the mantle sounded like a cannonade. 

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered, not meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. The fight seemed to have bled out of her abruptly. “That was uncalled for. Lost my head a bit.” 

“Crowley – ” 

“Look,” Crowley continued, stretching her hands out in surrender. “It’s fine. I appreciate the note. It’s just that – you know you don’t have to do this, right? I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do.” 

“It just seems like you’re always helping me,” Aziraphale said quietly, finding the floorboards suddenly quite compelling herself. “It felt unfair not to say so. And – and familiar.” 

Crowley sucked in a breath. When she spoke it was almost a whisper. 

“It was worth it then too, you know.” 

“It can’t have been. I was –”

“Worth it.”

Even the clock over the mantle now seemed to be holding its breath. Aziraphale thought time itself might have stopped. 

“Did you really want me to wait until I was back in London before I read this? Not even a good-bye before then?” Crowley sounded sad now, and oh, that was the last thing Aziraphale wanted. 

“I was just trying to give you space like you wanted!” Aziraphale protested. “You said it was in the past and I shouldn’t think about it!” 

Crowley looked blank. “What?”

“You didn’t want to share the bed!”

_“What?”_

“At the – enemy bar! With the – that greasy boy!” Aziraphale said shrilly, forgetting every adjective she’d ever known and most of the nouns. 

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all of his carpenter friends,” Crowley said, closing her eyes as if she was in pain. “Please tell me what you are talking about.” 

“I said I’d given you up and you said it was behind us,” Aziraphale said, wrestling her vocabulary back into some semblance of sense. “Don’t give it another thought, you said.”

Crowley exhaled loudly. “I meant, don’t beat yourself up over it. I didn’t want you to feel worse when you were already down. I didn’t mean I –” She cut herself off and waved a hand awkwardly. “You know. I wasn’t asking for space.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. So.” Crowley lifted a shoulder in what was probably meant to be a nonchalant shrug. “Glad we cleared that up.” 

“Crowley – ”

“I should go,” Crowley said, looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry about, er, just charging in. Congratulations on the apartment, it’s –” She was backing up now, eyes downcast, reaching behind her for the door. 

For once, Aziraphale knew what she was going to say before she said it.

“Please stay with me.” 

Crowley went very still, hand on the latch.

“If you like.” Aziraphale added quickly. “I just – I want to – I want to tell you something. ”

Crowley slowly took her hand off the latch. 

Aziraphale’s heartbeat was so loud in her ears she couldn’t believe Crowley couldn’t hear it too. She turned to her desk. The second letter sat where she had haphazardly thrust it away earlier that evening. From where Crowley was standing, and with Crowley’s eyesight, there was no way she’d be able to spot it, no reason for her to ever know about it. Aziraphale stepped forward and picked it up. She turned around to see Crowley eyeing her uncertainly. 

“I wrote it down,” Aziraphale said unsteadily, clutching the piece of paper in her hand until it crumpled. “But I think –” She swallowed and plunged forward. “I think you ought to hear it out loud. Finally.” 

“You don’t have to – ” Crowley began. 

“I’m not just fond of you. I’m in love with you.” 

Crowley’s mouth snapped shut. 

“I was then too.” Aziraphale added. “I should have said it. I thought of you all the time. I cursed myself for being such a coward after you left.” Crowley made a noise in protest, and Aziraphale held up a hand in acknowledgement. “I know, it was complicated. But you – ” she took a breath “– you were the best thing to ever happen to me. And I wish we could have had a real chance at – at our own side. That’s what I wanted, even though I didn’t do a very good job of showing it. You deserved better, and I’m sorry. ” 

“What – ” Crowley’s voice was a bit raspy. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What about what you want now?”

There was another silence as Aziraphale struggled for words, but it was no longer charged. It felt softer, patient, almost welcoming. Aziraphale looked at Crowley and realized she didn’t need very many words after all. 

“You.” She said. “I want you.”

Crowley closed her eyes, leaning back against the door as if her legs couldn’t quite support her weight. 

“Everything’s different, I know,” Aziraphale hastened to say. “We’re adults, I have to manage my boundaries with my family, you’re going back to London – ”

“I’m not going back to London.” 

This time it was Aziraphale who looked stunned. She gaped at Crowley. 

“I mean, I’ll have to go back once, get my plants, pack up my stuff, you know.” Crowley waved a hand weakly. “But then I’m – I’m moving back here to live with Beez.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, hope swelling in her chest. “Oh, I’m so – I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that.” 

“And not everything’s different.” Crowley said, standing up straight again. She met Aziraphale’s eyes squarely. 

“…no?” 

“No.” Crowley stepped forward. “Can think of one thing that’s stayed the same.”

“And what’s that?” Aziraphale felt herself stop breathing as Crowley reached her, a thrum of anticipation rising through her stomach. Crowley lifted a hand slowly and swept a lock of Aziraphale’s curls back from her forehead, giving her every opportunity to pull back. Aziraphale leaned into the touch. 

“Still absolutely gone on you,” Crowley whispered. “Just you.” 

This time it wasn’t cold. There was nothing of the snowy orchard on Crowley’s lips, no shivering, no fear of discovery, no need for doubt. Aziraphale parted her lips, delighting in the soft sound this elicited from Crowley, and leaned in, shifting them until Crowley’s back was against the door. 

She was safe. 

She was home.

They were together. 

They pulled apart eventually, breathing raggedly. Aziraphale had wound her hands so thoroughly into Crowley’s hair they might never come out again. Crowley was smiling softly at her, still looking a little incredulous. 

“Hey,” Aziraphale whispered, feeling absurdly shy all of a sudden. Crowley touched a finger to the upturned tip of her nose in response. “Stay a while? I’ve got a frankly ridiculous number of desserts that Anathema didn’t sell today.” 

“Whatever you like,” Crowley said agreeably. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at her and she amended it, smiling. “Yes, I’d like that too.” 

Aziraphale beamed. “Make yourself comfortable! I’ll get the plates.” They disentangled themselves reluctantly, Aziraphale already plotting to serve dessert on the sofa for maximum cuddling opportunities (though she wouldn’t dare utter the word “cuddle” in front of Crowley). 

“By the way, I like your glasses!” Aziraphale said cheerfully, glancing back. Crowley blinked at her, then whipped a hand up to her face. She had indeed been wearing glasses this whole time, a thick-framed square pair that Aziraphale had never seen before, and for once, the lenses weren’t tinted. The overall effect was less _rock n’ roll_ and more _postgrad_. 

“Forgot I was wearing these,” Crowley mumbled. She’d gone a bit red. “Too dark out to drive with the sunglasses.” 

“I think they’re charming,” Aziraphale said. “You look like you’d fit right in at the library.”

“Perish the thought,” Crowley growled. 

“Plus I like to see your eyes.” Aziraphale said, more earnestly. Crowley went redder, and busied herself with pulling off her coat at last. She looked down at the letter half-stuffed into a pocket, picking it up and smoothing it out. 

“I suppose I’m thankful after all that you sent me this – ” the corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched, “– this parking ticket.” 

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale couldn’t stop smiling. “It was only a little bit formal.” 

“Practically a court summons,” Crowley drawled. She pulled Aziraphale in again. 

“You fiend! We’ll never make it to dessert at this rate.” 

“Oh, we might.” Crowley grinned. Aziraphale swatted her with one hand, although her mock outrage was somewhat belied by her other hand, which was currently snaking around Crowley’s torso to pull her even closer. 

“I’d still like to read the other letter,” Crowley breathed into her ear. “Whenever you’re ready.” 

Aziraphale twisted in her arms to look into those golden eyes. 

“I’m ready.”


	12. Epilogue: Christmas Day, 2017

“You know,” Aziraphale said conversationally. “I’ve always hated Christmas.”

“Oh?” Crowley turned to look at her, a curl of red hair blowing across her face.

“Entirely. The whole month of December, really. I could never just relax and enjoy it, it’s always felt like a spotlight for all the reasons I wasn’t quite right.”

Crowley squeezed her hand gently. Aziraphale still felt strange speaking so candidly, but Crowley’s expression reflected nothing but quiet understanding and affection, and she felt safe enough to tease the redhead.

“I suppose you’ve always been too cool for it, hmm?”

Crowley scrunched up her nose. “Embarrassingly enough, I love it.”

“What?!” Aziraphale exclaimed, delighted at this new piece of information. “Plot twist!”

“I know,” Crowley groaned. “Not because of the family stuff, or the obligations, or that daft bloke with the elf shoes I keep seeing around town, but just – all the green, and all the lights – and it, y’know –” (Her ears were pink from the cold, but Aziraphale suspected that wasn’t the only reason.) “– It’s always reminded me of meeting you.”

Crowley had to stop talking then, because Aziraphale was kissing her.

“You really are very sweet, you know.” Aziraphale said, when they broke apart.

“This is slander,” Crowley grumbled. With what seemed like great effort, she started walking again, although Aziraphale noticed she didn’t let go of her hand.

“You feeling okay about this afternoon? You’re still welcome to join me ‘n Beez,” Crowley was still a bit pink, her breath puffing visibly in the cold air, so Aziraphale graciously went along with the subject change. “Although, fair warning, there won’t be a turkey at ours because they don’t want to traumatize Harold,” Crowley added as an afterthought. Aziraphale laughed, feeling lighter than she would have believed possible even a week ago.

“I’m going to go, I said I’d bring the sprouts.” Aziraphale said, feeling determined. “Now that I know I don’t have to stay, it feels possible. And this is the first year I’ve missed Gabriel’s Christmas sermon, so I’m already coming out ahead!” She wrapped her arm around Crowley’s to steady her as she clambered over a fallen branch.

The Christmas meal would mark the third time Aziraphale had been back to visit the Fell house since her move. She’d spent most of the first visit bracing for a guilt trip that never came, almost wishing her mother _would_ say something just so the dreadful anticipation would be over, but Frances merely joined her for tea and inquired about the library. The second time Gabriel had been there too. He didn’t mention her flat or acknowledge her move, but returned to the familiar territory of making barbed comments about what she was eating. Aziraphale excused herself and left before tea. On the way out, she bid farewell to her mother, who looked at her with something that might have resembled respect – although Aziraphale was surprised to find that this didn’t make her feel much better.

Resolving to salvage what she could of that evening, she had invited Crowley over (“I’d just like to see you,” she’d said, honestly, and oh, wasn’t _that_ a thrill). Crowley had turned up with a wry smile, chocolate truffles, and the 1995 adaptation of _Persuasion_ on her laptop. Aziraphale had brought out every blanket she owned and fussed over Crowley until she was snugly bundled and sufficiently warm. In a very short span of time Aziraphale had learned that she quite _liked_ fussing over Crowley, now that she had the space and the courage to do so.

Overcome with fondness at the memory, Aziraphale crept in closer to Crowley, sneaking a hand into the back pocket of Crowley’s ludicrously tight jeans as she walked.

“Oi!” Crowley said, with mock outrage. “If you distract me we might lose the trail, and then we’ll have to call for help, and _then_ Adam Young will make fun of us and we’ll lose every shred of credibility with the Youth of Today.”

“What makes you think we have credibility with them now?” Aziraphale started to ask, quite reasonably, with zero intention of moving her hand. She never got to the end of her sentence, as they finally emerged from the trees and her voice trailed off in wonder.

The Them’s hand-drawn map was unlikely to win any prizes for penmanship or cartographic style, but it had led them exactly where they wanted. Here, the forest canopy gave way to a rocky outcrop, overlooking a shallow valley sloping gently away from them. Nestled lower in the slopes, dusted with white, was the Morning Star orchard, full of scrubby trees that didn’t stand quite straight in rows that weren’t quite even. Beyond that, if she squinted, Aziraphale could just make out the shape of the farmhouse.

“Beautiful,” she breathed.

Crowley turned to smile at her, hair alight in the winter sun, and Aziraphale thought of their first walk in the orchard and the many more that were sure to come, of shivery hurried kisses in the snow and lingering cocoa kisses in the kitchen, of everything they’d had and lost and recovered.

If this was Christmas, she thought, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

Update: Thank you to Marie for the incredible gift of the fanart above! Look at these cozy ladies! And those beautiful trees! You can see more of her work at https://betula-mimosa.tumblr.com/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Thank you SO much for coming along on this story and sticking with it even though we are not even remotely in the Christmas season anymore. This is the longest thing I have written for fun in at least ten years, and it was a joy to rediscover that possibility with these characters that are so dear to me.


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